Heatwave
by Kopy.Kunoichi
Summary: Sherlock is on a case, and his only available assistant is Molly. A dangerous heatwave is blanketing the city of London, and stealing the lives of several citizens. But Sherlock is convinced one of the corpses wasn't killed by heat. The pressure is on, and it just keeps getting hotter...especially for a certain detective and his lovely assistant. Post Reichenbach Fall.
1. A Welcome Diversion

Molly Hooper was bored.

Granted, this state of mind tended not to result in such wonton destruction as a certain detective acquaintance of hers, but still – it was exasperating. She was enjoying – or rather not – a rare four day weekend, thanks to some random government holiday. Not really long enough to go anywhere exciting (not that she ever really went anywhere spectacular on holiday), but long enough to make it difficult for her to find something constructive to do with her time.

She was lying on her couch in her flat, fanning herself vigorously with a magazine she had previously been reading. That was her second problem. Even if she could find something to do out of doors, she really didn't have much incentive to go out, since London was currently under the affliction of a massive heat wave. The weather app on her phone was reading 37C; though the humidity index would have pushed that up a few degrees more. She was only wearing a pair of thin sleep shorts and a camisole, but her clothes still clung to her damp skin. Despite the appalling heat, her cat, Toby, was still curled contentedly on her belly. Unable to stand the extra heat emitting from his body any longer, she gently shooed him off her.

"I'm sorry, mate – it's just too flipping hot for a cuddle," she replied to his annoyed yowl.

She threw her legs over the side of the couch, and padded to her kitchen to pour herself a large glass of ice water. She downed it in one long gulp, enjoying the sensation of a few stray droplets escaping her lips and dripping onto her throat. Her flat was unfortunately not equipped with a central air system, and the only relieve from the blistering weather were two window units (one in her living room and the other in her bedroom). The latter of these, she only turned on at night when she was sleeping – otherwise her electric bill would be sky high.

Molly made her way over to the window that housed her main AC, her belly sloshing from all the water she had consumed. She braced her arms on either side of the window frame, letting the circulating air cool her damp chest and underarms…except the air being blown on her did not feel that cool at all. In fact, it was downright warm. Just as she leaned down to check the temperature settings, the motor inside the unit made an odd whining noise, and then stopped altogether with a soft sputter. Molly blinked at the offending object for a moment, before letting out a string of curses that would have impressed her father. Of all the times for the stupid thing to quit on her!

Well, that was that – she either needed to buy a new AC or she needed to find another place to stay for the weekend. Anyone she would be comfortable staying with – which was only about three people– was out travelling for the weekend or otherwise occupied. She was just settling down to her laptop to search for good quality, fairly priced air conditioners, when the door to her flat abruptly swung open with a bang. Molly nearly jumped out of her skin, before her surprise was replaced by an unsettled, flighty feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was, by now, a familiar feeling – always accompanied by the presence of a certain person - who was currently standing in her doorway, panting as though he had run all the way to her flat from his own. For all she knew, he might have.

"Sher-lock?" she managed.

"Molly," he rasped, clearly making an effort to stand up straight as his chest heaved in and out.

His usual coat was gone (not surprising in this heat) and his dress shirt had a couple extra buttons at the top undone (that was strange). His curly hair was matted to his forehead and his entire shirt was dark with sweat.

"My God, what happened?" she asked, gaining enough sense to get up and approach him. "Are you injured?" she asked, placing a hand tentatively on his shoulder and leading him inside.

"What? Of course not. Only – a little – winded," he explained, half falling into the chair she had just occupied.

She stood across from him and waited for him to catch his breath and offer her some sort of explanation. He sat with his legs spread wide and his arms slung behind the back of the chair, his head tipped back a bit.

"Could I trouble you for a glass of water?" he asked, looking at the ceiling instead of her.

"Oh – of course – I'm sorry. One moment," she spluttered, mentally kicking herself for not offering immediately; some friend she was.

She fetched the water and brought it back to him, trying not to be mesmerized by the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he threw the water down the hatch all at once. Ironically, just like her, a few drops escaped his mouth and ran down his neck, joining a slight pool of sweat that had collected in the hollow of his throat. She stared at the spot and licked her lips absentmindedly, before tearing her eyes back to his face. His intense blue gaze was fixed on her, though his face was still tilted back. Perfect. She supposed it was too much to ask that he hadn't noticed that she was blatantly ogling him. A slight tug at the corner of his mouth confirmed her suspicions, and she launched into an interrogation of him before he could make some sort of snide comment about her interest in his sweat slicked neck.

"So tell me now, how is it exactly that you have come to be at my flat in such a state? You look as if you were running from the emissaries of hell," she snorted, trying to sound casual.

In the time they had spent together after she helped him fake his death, she had grown a littler bolder in her dialog with him, though she still found herself sometimes intimidated and uncomfortable in his presence. He could still unnerve her whenever he wanted to; a fact they were both well aware of. In the months that he had spent biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to return from the dead, he had spent quite some time with her. He even slept on her couch on and off, which had proved to be far less of an ordeal than she had thought.

He had grown comfortable with her, even dependent on her. She knew that much of it was because of their circumstances. He was supposed to be dead, and only she knew the truth. Every person in his life, that had been part of his regular routine, had been snatched from him. Sometimes she had to assume the role of Mrs. Hudson, cleaning up after him and brewing him some tea when he reached a snag in his efforts to topple Moriarty's schemes. Other times she had to be his John, offering him calm counsel and an outside opinion, but mostly just listening to his rants. Rarely she had to be Lastrade, and keep him reigned in when he threatened to go out of control. But most of the time, he let her be herself. They kept a companionable silence when they worked together on solving his greatest case – the case that would set him free of the prison Moriarty had forced him into. They would order Chinese takeout and spend hours accumulating the proper notes and evidence he needed.

He would go off and disappear for days, even weeks at a time – only now he kept in touch with her by text. Rarely a day went by when she didn't hear something from him, usually just a random comment or a warning to stay away from a man who she may or may not have even been interested in dating, in the first place. Those would always be followed with some sarcastic quip about her tendency to date gay, deranged, psychopaths – she would apparently never live that down.

"Oh please, Molly," he drawled. "When have you ever known me to run _away _from danger?" he asked; a familiar sparkle in his eye.

She chuckled, "I suppose that is true. So what was it this time? A felon get away from the coppers? Trying to run down a get-away car full of bank burglars?"

"Ha, nothing that grand. Just your average, run-of-the-mill purse snatcher, actually."

She raised an eyebrow at that.

"Who apparently could have gone to university on a scholarship based on his track and field times," Sherlock grinned. "I _almost _didn't catch him."

"But your superior knowledge of the streets of London gave you an edge?"

"No. I didn't dare lose sight of him to take a short-cut – I just had to outlast him. Obviously, he was a sprinter, from the way he lost substantial speed after precisely 400 meters. Of course, he managed to get quite a bit ahead of me in that first stretch, so it took a bit to close the gap. And in this blasted humidity, I felt like I was sucking water straight into my lungs."

Molly couldn't even imagine running outside right now, with the temperature so high, "So you did catch him though?"

He nodded.

"And got the purse back to its owner?"

"Naturally."

"So why are you here?"

"I returned the purse to the dear old lady about a block from here, so I decided to pop over for a shower. I'm drenched."

"I noticed."

"I noticed you noticed."

Molly flushed before recovering herself. He had been getting awfully direct in his comments to her lately and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about it.

"You know where the towels are, help yourself. I think I might have a few of your things still here for you to change into, actually. I'll look for them."

He rose out of the chair, making his way to the small hallway closet to grab a fresh towel. He turned to look back over her shoulder at her, combing back a clump of curls that were stuck to his forehead with his fingers. It made him look a little older with more of his forehead exposed. She found him rather sexy with his hair slicked back – not that he wasn't sexy all the time.

"You know, Molly," he said in that very deep voice he usually reserved for charming her with, "that gray camisole gets a little transparent when you perspire. You should consider slipping on a brazier when you go looking for my clothes."

With that, he ducked into the bathroom and shut the door before she could even finish processing what he had just said. She looked down at herself in trepidation – her fears confirmed when she indeed noticed that the thin material of her cami left very little to the imagination of what was beneath it – which was nothing. How could she have been so stupid? She completely forgot that she had forgone putting on a bra this morning. It was hot. It was her day off. She wasn't expecting company.

Her stress gave way to a cry of frustration, as she stormed past the bathroom to dig a bra out of the mess in her bedroom. She swore she head a muffled chuckle as she passed the door. Bastard. Why did he have to say things like that? What was the gain in pointing out something like that? It certainly wasn't to encourage her modesty, for she very well knew he didn't care about such things. In a world of naked corpses, parts were parts. No, he did it specifically to irritate her. He liked getting her all hot and bothered whenever he got the chance. She knew he was aware of her feelings for him, and sometimes she even wondered if, to some extent, he was fond of her. Not really in a romantic way – that was wishful thinking – but in an overbearing, big-brotherly way, perhaps.

He was always telling her to stay away from other men, after all. And he did like to tease her about her body whenever he got the chance. She didn't believe that he did it to make fun of her feelings, even he wasn't _that _mean. She figured that he thought her affection to be nothing more than a crush, something that would pass in time. He had acknowledged her as a colleague and friend, and she knew better than anyone the lengths he would go to protect his friends. Perhaps that was why he always found fault with anyone she was ever remotely interested in, even relationships with women. She soon realized that he was a demanding friend, fiercely possessive, and perhaps even a little insecure when it came to holding on to the people closest to him. That discovery had pleased her, and she secretly enjoyed his scathing texts pertaining to other people he disapproved of – which was everyone. Especially men. That possessive streak of his made her feel wanted, safe even. There was no place to hide from the keen eyes of Sherlock Holmes. He always knew where she was and who she was with. And he was never far away, she thought with a smile, as she put on a sports bra and pulled a dry tank top over it.

She began rummaging through the back of her closet, looking for stray articles of clothing he had left. He usually always kept at least one dress shirt and a pair of pants with her, just in case of emergencies. She found a pair of his pants, but no shirt. He might have taken the last one home with him and forgotten to replace it. Oh well, she had some oversized t-shirts she slept in sometimes, that he could fit into. She heard the shower shut off, and a few moments later, the door creaked open. She had just finished laying out his pants and a clean t-shirt. She knew he would object – Sherlock Holmes _never _wore t-shirts – but it was all she had.

"I'm not wearing that," came a deep voice right above her head.

She almost jumped in spite of herself. How did he do that? She could never understand how he could get so close to her without her hearing him.

Rolling her eyes, she turned to face him – regretting it instantly. He had his towel wrapped around him, but had barely dried the rest of himself off. He was so close to her, that looking up would have made her crane her neck, so she looked lower instead. Water was running down his sculpted chest and stomach, disappearing into the fibers of the cloth that was draped extremely low across his hips. She found herself staring at those odd little lines that fit men have, the ones that extend from their hipbones down to their…oh dear. She hastily turned her head to the side, lest she followed the lines of his body all the way to their destination. She could tell, without looking at him, that he was smirking at her.

"Well, you know, it's all I have," she said, finally finding her voice. "You can't wear the one you came in, and you took your last dress shirt home with you."

"Was that the purple one?"

"Not sure."

"Hmm, I guess this will have to do. It's only a cap drive away. Still, to be seen in this…" he trailed off. "Molly?"

"What?"

"This was a man's shirt. The stains on the underarms indicate it was worn by a man who used spray on deodorant, instead of solid stick. An athlete then. And the shoulders are stretched by someone with a much larger frame that you. Are you actually giving me a t-shirt worn by an ex-boyfriend of yours? Really, Molly?" his tone was disapproving.

"It's not a boyfriends'," she interjected quickly, smirking a little that he had jumped to the wrong conclusion. "It was my fathers'. Just a nighty I've had forever."

"Oh. I see."

"Will you just put it on already?"

"Why? Are you uncomfortable with me half naked in your bedroom, like this? I can't imagine why, you work with nude corpses every day."

"Nude corpses don't talk as much as you do, so just, put those on, and I'll…give you some privacy," she said hastily, as he was already reaching down to undo his towel. She scampered out of the room and left him to it, retreating to the safety of the kitchen. She was in the process of downing another glass of water, when he appeared from her bedroom, looking somewhat ridiculous in dress pants and an old uni t-shirt, which was slightly too large for him. She swallowed her laugh though, when she saw the look on his face. She knew that look. There was a glint in his eye that could only mean one thing.

"Got a text about a case?"

He raised an eyebrow at her deduction, "How on earth did you know that?"

"Your eyes got a little brighter," she answered truthfully.

This was her skill. He read signs on people – she just read people. She was better at it than he, a fact which she was exceedingly proud of. Out loud, she attributed it simply to women's intuition, but she knew it was more than that. She was always good at reading people's faces, even when they were trying to mask their feelings. Even when rumor had it, they didn't _have _feelings. She knew the truth. Eyes were the windows to the soul, so they say. His were particularly deep. She could always see straight to the heart of him – especially after she had gotten to know him better over the past few months. She knew what certain looks meant. Certain ways that he quirked those full lips of his too, were dead giveaways to what he was thinking or feeling.

He smiled at her appreciatively, "Yes indeed – excellent deduction. And you're coming with me."

"I am?"

"Yes, of course. John is off visiting with Harry this weekend and I require an assistant."

"You already knew about it when you came here, didn't you?"

"I was unsure, at the time, if it was going to be worth my while. And, of course, I was a bit distracted by the incident with the purse snatcher. However, this text suggests my theory about the case was correct, and it might just prove to be interesting, after all."

"What is it?"

"Go put some appropriate clothes on, and I'll fill you in when we're on our way to my place. I have to get a clean shirt anyway before we go."

"Right."

She made her way back to her bedroom to find something "appropriate", casting a disparaging look at the broken AC as she went by. She wouldn't have time to buy one now, meaning her night was going to be spent tossing and turning trying to stay cool. The AC in her room was rather weak, after all.

"Bring a change of clothes for tomorrow," Sherlock's voice called after her from the kitchen.

"What? Why?"

"You're staying with me tonight. You'll be useless to me tomorrow if you come back here to sleep – you're main AC is broken and you don't have time to pick up a new one today. You won't catch a wink."

She wasn't sure how she felt about that one. Him sleeping on her couch was one thing, but her sleeping on his? The whole night? In _his _domain? That was more than a little scary. She racked her brain for an excuse.

"What about Toby? I can't leave him in this heat."

She heard a cat's hissing cry, followed by an uncharacteristic yelp from Sherlock, and then, "It's taken care of."

Molly emerged, wearing a pair of loose trousers, and a plain button down blouse. She pulled her hair up into a neat ponytail as she walking back into the kitchen. Sherlock was sucking on the back of his hand, but Toby was in his little carrier with a ziplock bag of food sitting on top. She smiled at the two of them, and grabbed the carrier and her satchel from beside the door.

"Shall we?"

Stooping to stuff his sweaty clothes into her bag – much to her displeasure – he grinned, "We shall."

**K.K.: Well, here we go...my first attempt at mystery. But don't worry, we are still heavily focused on the relationship. The case is just going to help these two out a little. I'm trying to keep them both in character, which is rather difficult, seeing as how Sherlock especially can be so changeable. I'm purposely making Molly a little bolder. After all, being told that she's needed - by him - was probably a great confidence booster. As always, read and respond, I covet reviews. And bear with me, my usually colloquial American vocabulary is being stretched to the max trying to keep the dialog sounding British. ^_^**


	2. A True Conundrum

Sherlock secured a cab in short order, ushering Molly and Toby in first, before sliding in beside them. The oppressive heat hit Molly in the face like a physical slap, but luckily, the interior of the cab was cooler.

"I think it's getting hotter," she commented once Sherlock had given the cabbie his address.

"It's predicted to keep rising for the next two days and then sustain over the next week," he responded automatically.

"Wonderful. So what's the case about?"

"Heat."

"Heat?"

"Precisely. More specifically, a string of deaths resulting from the heat."

"But that's not unusual. There are probably at least a thousand deaths every year, in the UK alone, from heat waves."

"Two thousand."

"But you think this string of deaths is something more? Murder?"

"Not all of them; just one."

"What makes you think that?"

He fished his phone out of his pocket and quickly pulled up his latest text. A multimedia message flickered onto the screen and he turned the phone so she could see. He didn't quite turn it far enough though, so she scooted closer to his shoulder to peer at the small image. The corpse in the picture was a woman, most likely in her sixties, lying on her back atop a bed. Molly looked at the picture closely, trying to determine what it was that Sherlock was seeing – or not seeing – that made him suspect foul play. She missed it.

"I give up…what do you see?" she asked after a moment.

He smiled, "The sheets aren't wrinkled."

"What?"

"She died in her bed from heat stroke, supposedly. The sheets should be wrinkled and darkened from the sweat. Yet, there they are, perfectly pressed and dry."

She squinted at the photo, "That's hard to tell from the picture though. Are you sure?"

"Lestrade confirmed. Also, the apartment is rather too upscale to have no AC."

"I see. That's not a lot to go on, though. Even if you do find enough evidence to proof that this was the result of negligence or worse; why would you even take a case like this? It doesn't really sound like something you would be interested in."

"The deceased is one Margaret Decker. She is the mother of a contact of mine, who's proven to be quite helpful, in the past."

"You're doing it as a favor," she nodded in understanding. "A homeless network contact?"

"No, a businessman. He is the owner of a small shipping company which handles some government orders and such that they like to keep off the books."

"So, he's been employed by your brother," she stated, rather than questioned.

He shot her a lopsided smirk before continuing, "He was away at the time of her death. He contacted me about it this morning, wanting me to take a look. I asked Lestrade to snap a photo or two and send them, and he obliged. You're right, it's not a lot to go on – I'll have to take a better look at the place. I asked Lestrade to hold the white coats off for a bit."

"Is Anderson going to be there?"

He let out an exasperated sigh, confirming her suspicions.

"Well, at least Lestrade has gained a bit more clout with the higher ups since your return. He can give you even more latitude than you had before."

"Yes, there's that," he muttered darkly, apparently none too pleased at being reminded of Anderson.

She remained comfortably silent the remainder of the short ride to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock left the cabbie with instructions to wait for them, before bounding up the stairs to his flat. Molly followed somewhat slower, trying to be careful not to rock Toby around too much. When she walked through his door, she discovered the t-shirt he had been wearing discarded on the couch. She closed the door behind her and set Toby down in the kitchen, pulling two small bowls out of the cupboard and filling them with his food and water. She unlatched his crate and set him free, letting him roam about. He was a good natured cat – except when Sherlock was chasing him – so she wasn't worried about him damaging anything in the flat.

"What do you think? This one or this one?" Sherlock asked from the bedroom door, holding up two dress shirts for her to consider, one navy blue and the other a lighter shade of the same color.

She tried to focus on the apparel and not the, once again, naked body behind them, "The lighter one."

"But it will show sweat stains – I'm forgoing the jacket today," he protested.

"And the dark one will draw in more heat. Don't you have a white one?"

"Why, so it can become as transparent as your camisole this morning?" he snickered.

"Wear an undershirt!" she exclaimed, irritated that he was bringing that up _again_.

"Very well," he complied, disappearing into his room again.

She rolled her eyes and headed to the loo, desperately needing some relief after all those glasses of water she had drunk.

She finished her business and exited the bathroom, finding him dressed in a plain white dress shirt and ready to go. She grabbed her bag once more, ridding it of his sweaty clothes – which surprisingly smelled quite good – and headed downstairs with him. She waited as Sherlock left instructions with Mrs. Hudson to leave his flat alone, since it was occupied with the cat, and walked out into the heat once more. She noticed that the humidity was not letting his hair dry from the shower; it still clung stiffly to his neck, which was almost as pale as his collar.

"You know, white washes your skin out; you look almost pekid," she commented.

He already had one foot in the cab, but moved like he was going to get out and change again. She laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently shoving him back into the car.

"No time for that now. C'mon."

She slid in next to him, thoroughly enjoying the look of reproach he leveled at her.

"Do you really think that?" he asked.

"Yes, but it's alright – you'll be more comfortable in white."

"But I won't look like myself."

"Vanity, thy name is Sherlock."

"Honestly Molly, you shouldn't quote Shakespeare-"

"I improvised it to fit the situation; now stop your critiquing and tell me more about this friend of yours," she chided, enjoying the playful banter.

"Not a friend, just a contact. Nothing much to tell, he's helped me out with a few favors concerning Mycroft, and now I feel compelled to return the courtesy."

"I see," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "So what have you been doing with yourself? I haven't heard from you in a while."

He glanced at her sidelong before scooting down and crossing his ankle over his knee, "Nothing of importance. Trying to convince John not to leave this weekend. Studying the effects of prolonged exposure to grape seed oil on the human hands – don't ask. Avoiding going outside at all costs. That about sums it up."

"Sounds dull."

He threw his head back against the seat with a thud, "You have no idea."

"You haven't been putting any more lead in Mrs. Hudson's walls have you?"

"No," he paused for a moment. "I may have redecorated my bedroom walls with a collage of paper mache African masks though.

Molly giggled at that, "You didn't stick them right to the wall with glue, did you?"

He gave her another sidelong glance and a guilty frown; then started laughing himself. She couldn't help but join in with him, as she imagined the look on Mrs. Hudson's face when she tried to peel those masks off the wallpaper. This had been another side effect of their time together when he was "dead". Sometimes he would just say something so utterly ridiculous, she would have to laugh out loud. And when she did, he usually joined her after a moment. It had been such a foreign sound to her; the first time she heard it, she stopped laughing herself just to listen to it. She found herself missing that deep rumble, of late. It was good to hear it again. She missed being able to listen to his voice all the time, like she did when he was in and out of her flat in those days. She would try to imagine the sound of his voice when she read his texts, but it was not the same.

"You haven't texted me since Sunday," she observed, not really meaning to say it aloud.

"Were you worried?" he asked, turning his head to fully look at her.

"Not worried. I just…I don't know…it's silly," she tried not to stutter. Why did she even bring this up? "I missed hearing from you."

"Why? I don't usually say things that I would expect you to take much joy from."

"Indeed you don't," she laughed. "But still, I suppose I've gotten used to hearing my phone go off and just…know you're thinking of me."

Oh stupid, stupid, Molly. That was over the top. She felt herself flush and abruptly turned her head to look out her window. Of course, the light was just right for her to see his reflection staring at her. His head was still leaned back against the seat, and his face looked thoughtful as he searched out her eyes in the glass.

"Forget I said anything," she said quietly.

"Why is it important for you to know that I'm thinking of you?" he replied, instead.

"It's not. Just…never mind."

"Molly," his voice held that warning tone.

She smiled bitterly to herself, knowing he wouldn't drop it until she fully explained herself, "I guess I got spoiled when you were with me. I was so used to being your only friend…that when you came back and your life started up all over again and things sort of went back to the way they were…I felt left behind, I suppose."

This was not the kind of conversation she wanted to be having in the back of a cab. Luckily the driver was minding his own business and keeping his attention on the road.

"But I contact you far more than I ever did before."

"I know. That's why this whole thing is silly and we should just…stop talking about it."

She honestly didn't even know why she had just said all that. She was happy with their relationship now, wasn't she? It was so much better than it was before. They _were _closer. He _did _contact her often. Why was it that the closer she got to him, the more she wanted? She could never be satisfied with what she had. Now she was just going to end up pushing him further away by acting needy like this.

"No. Look at me."

She reluctantly turned her head back to meet those piercing blue eyes. She swallowed a lump that suddenly sprang to her throat.

"Molly, you know when I get engrossed in what I'm doing, I don't think of much else."

"I know. That's why I wondered what you were up to. I thought maybe you were on a case or something – that would have explained you not texting me. But you just said you were bored. You weren't doing anything. I'm sorry, that sounds like you're obligated to keep in touch, and you're not. Sherlock, please…just forget I said a thing. It doesn't matter. I'm not upset or anything."

"Says the woman before me on the verge of tears. You're not pre-menstrual, are you?"

"Sherlock!"

"That would certainly explain why you're-"

"Enough!" she half yelled at him, this time earning a look in the rear view mirror from the driver. "Just please don't say anything else. I'm fine, I'm happy; I don't care if you don't text me for weeks. Let's just focus on the case. Do you know if this woman has any prior medical history?"

Sherlock studied her for a long moment, before sitting up straighter and answering, "She's 67, so I assume so. I don't have access to her _charts_, but I believe Ian mentioned she was diabetic."

He voice held a note of irritation in it, and she couldn't blame him. She couldn't believe she had just gone off on him - right before going on an investigation too. Well that settled it; he was never going to ask her to help him again…ever. Emotional females – that was the last thing in the world Sherlock Holmes wanted in an assistant. And now, she was going to have to go home with him tonight. Perfect.

"Diabetics are highly susceptible to heat stroke, especially if she was taking any diuretics."

"Duly noted."

Oh he was pissed. She fought the urge to scream out loud. Why was she so stupid? She was saved from having to make any further conversation when they arrived at their destination. Thank God, it was closer than she had thought. Sherlock unfolded himself from the car and slammed it shut behind him. He paid the cabbie, leaving her to exit her own side and walk around the back of the vehicle.

She spotted Lestrade, just inside the open door to the apartment building, and left Sherlock behind to approach him. He flashed her a charming grin upon seeing her, though it faltered a bit when he looked behind her and saw the scowl on Sherlock's face as he walked up.

"Alright, where is she?" Sherlock asked, shouldering past Molly to stand between her and Lestrade.

"Up the stairs to your right," the detective said, gesturing in the correct direction.

As they were following him up the flight of steps, Molly noticed that the building itself felt fairly cool, even out in the hallway. It was a newer apartment, three stories high, situated between older buildings. This one had modern décor and features, she noted, as they arrived upstairs and crossed the yellow tape into a room at the end of the hall. The room was tastefully decorated, if not a little old fashioned. Sherlock stepped aside to speak to a tall, blonde-haired man, who was not wearing a uniform. That must be Ian, the son. She did not waste time examining the kitchen or living room – that was Sherlock's department – but headed straight to the bedroom.

Mrs. Decker lay out on the bed, almost looking as if she were asleep. Anderson was standing off to the side, writing something down on a notepad. She had the misfortune of meeting him several months ago, not long after Sherlock had announced his return from the dead, and reclaimed his old job title. He looked about as thrilled at this moment as he did then.

"Don't disturb anything," he warned her, his voice full of condescension.

"Worry not, Detective Anderson, Miss Hooper's _job _is working with dead people," Sherlock sneered, appearing in the doorway behind her. "You are the only disturbing one in the room."

"Working with corpses in a morgue and working with bodies on a crime scene are two separate issues," Anderson shot back, ignoring the jibe.

"Crime scene? What crime? I thought you were assuming that Mrs. Decker succumbed to the heat," he answered, raising an eyebrow at the other man.

"We were, but her son is insisting that couldn't have been the case – so we have to consider that as a possibility."

"Indeed, one must always consider the possibility of foul play when investigating the death of someone – especially the elderly."

"Why especially?" Molly asked, forgetting for a moment that she was mad at him.

"Simply that there is often much to be gained from the death of an elderly person, particularly one as well off as Mrs. Decker. I'm not suggesting that is the case here, though," he said, bending down over the body to inspect the fingers of one hand, then the other. "Analysis, Miss Hooper?"

"It certainly does look like heat stroke. Elderly often die in their beds when the temperatures get too high. They go to bed when they are hot, and then lose the strength to get up again. Organs fail, they lose consciousness, and finally die. Her skin has a bluish hue, consistent with blood vessels contracting with the loss of blood pressure."

Molly carefully pulled the sleeve back on the woman's night gown, "These marks here on her upper arm are consistent with dialysis. See the bruising? It must have been recently administered. Kidney failure is common in patients with diabetes, suggesting that she's had the disease for some time…which would make her all the more susceptible to the heat."

"Lestrade," Sherlock summoned.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Have there been any reports of the air conditioning failing in this building?"

"No. We asked the tenants in the rooms on either side of this one. They didn't have any complaints."

"The units in this building have their own central air, so the tenants have control over the temperate," Sherlock observed. "There is no evidence that the temperature in this unit has been recently elevated from what it is now."

"How can you possibly tell that?" Anderson dared ask.

"Oh, open your eyes, you dolt!" Sherlock snapped. "No condensation on the windows, no dampness on the bed sheets around the body, not even a wrinkle."

He quickly stepped away from the bed and moved into a bathroom adjoining the bedroom, stooping down next to the toilet. He placed his gloved hand first on the outside of the tank, then felt around the floor next to it.

"The tank isn't sweating, and there's no water marks on the floor around the base – which would have been evident if the temperature had spiked in the last day or so."

He inhaled deeply, moving to the window and sniffing at the curtains. He grabbed one of the drapes and shoved it in Anderson's face, "Take a whiff – do you smell any must? Not likely, because there is none. The air in here is dry and recirculated, meaning it's been steadily conditioned."

Molly smiled in spite of herself; he certainly knew how to make a point.

"So if she didn't die from heat stroke, what killed her?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Sherlock admitted.

"Could she have simply died of complications from her illness?" Anderson asked.

"Ian said she was in fine health two days ago," said Sherlock. "In fact, she appeared to be in better health than she had been for some time."

"Are you finished with the place, then?" Lestrade asked him.

"Yes. Take the body to Bart's so Molly can do the autopsy."

"Once we analyze what was in her system, we can rule out quite a bit," Molly added. "I should be able to establish cause of death by tonight."

"Alright, thanks for the input," Lestrade said, leaving the room to usher in the medical team.

Sherlock caught Molly's eye and inclined his head toward the bathroom. She entered the small room, taking the opportunity to open the medicine cabinet to get the list of medications Mrs. Decker was taking. He followed her, positioning himself behind her, close enough not to be overheard by Anderson, who was still lurking in the bedroom.

"Nod your head and pretend I'm telling you something important," he instructed, leaning down so far that she could feel his breath tickling her ear.

Repressing a shiver, she nodded – pulling a pill bottle from the cabinet and inspecting the label.

"What is that?" he whispered.

"Thalidone; it's a diuretic. This medicine would make her even more susceptible to heat. Sherlock, are you sure there is no evidence of elevated temperature?"

"Yes," he hissed. "I'm sure. Are you doubting my deductions now?"

"No, it's just…the way she's lying, her coloration, the fact that she's highly susceptible – it's textbook."

"Could she have been killed by a heat stroke without the temperature being elevated?" he asked.

"Actually, yes. Drug induced hyperthermia is a possibility. But I don't see any medications here that should have caused such a thing."

"Make a list of them, perhaps she overdosed," he said, reaching an arm around her to hand her a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

"Right. Um…Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry – about what I said earlier," she apologized softly, as she jotted down the medications.

"Never mind that, it's not important, and I had almost forgotten about it until you said something," he chided, though his tone held a light note.

"Right. So then…why are we whispering again?"

"What? Oh. No reason other than to make Anderson think I know something he doesn't know. It drives him mad."

"You know a lot of things Anderson doesn't know," she commented, taking the opportunity to stroke his ego.

"How right you are, my dear."

Molly closed the cupboard door, catching his self-satisfied smile reflected in the mirror. That worked better than she thought it would. It seemed as if the tension had indeed been cleared and they were back to normal – and he called her something nice to boot. A little compliment went a long way with Sherlock; he was like her in that regard.

"Well, if you're done vexing Anderson, I suppose we better be off to Bart's if we're going to do an autopsy and tox-screen tonight."

"After you," he said, standing in the doorway just enough out of the way that she still had to touch him to get by.

So he was back to toying with her – lovely.

"Good evening to you, Anderson," Sherlock chirped with mock enthusiasm, guiding her out of the room with his hand on the small of her back.

Was he trying to make the other man jealous? Make him think there was something going on between them that really wasn't? Molly couldn't fathom _what _was going on in that head of his, but neither was she going to complain.

Sherlock said a few words to Ian; both of them bid Lestrade farewell, and headed back out to catch a cab. The heat was even more unbearable after having been in a good air conditioned place. At least it would be cool in the morgue.

"Why didn't you introduce me to Mr. Decker?" Molly asked.

"He's charming. I don't like to introduce you to charming men – you're too susceptible to that sort of thing and he's not your type. It would only lead to heartbreak on your part and I'm trying to spare you the pain."

Molly laughed, "You make me sound like some sort of desperate, man hunter. I _can _meet a bloke without falling in love with him, you know."

"Yes, I'm aware. I suppose since he's neither gay nor a psychopath, he might be safe from your affections."

She gave him a look that must have been entertaining, for he graced her with yet another deep laugh. She giggled back. Twice in one day – not bad. Sherlock managed to get the attention of a cabbie just then, and they embarked on a pleasant ride to Bart's. They talked some more about the case and the symptoms that Mrs. Decker had exhibited. It truly was perplexing; but they would learn more once Molly could get her on the table. Sherlock pulled out his phone, presumably to fill John in on the details of the case he was missing out on. She asked him if he was getting hungry, to which he informed her that he had stashed some crisps in her office at work. She was beginning to think that he really had forgotten about the whole unfortunate conversation earlier, when her phone suddenly vibrated. She fished it out of her satchel, puzzled when she saw Sherlock's name appear on the screen. She glanced sidelong at him, noticing his phone still in his hand. She flipped hers open to view the message.

The text read: DINNER AT BART'S. I NEED YOU FOR A CASE.

She smiled and turned her head to look at him. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, but a smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth. She looked at the text again, reading what he had really written to her. DINNER AT BART'S. **I NEED YOU** FOR A CASE. He had understood what she had been trying to say earlier, after all. It wasn't that she felt ignored by him or was mad at him for not texting. It was that she no longer felt needed by him. And here he was telling her – in not so many words – that he still needed her. She was so very impressed and proud of him in that moment. How far he had come in order to comprehend what she had failed to directly tell him? And then he took the appropriate and considerate action by putting her fears to rest. Simply amazing. The last year had certainly changed him…changed both of them. She wondered what else time could do for the two of them.

**K.K.: Well, there you have it - the case has been introduced. I know it doesn't sound all that exciting - but I promise to throw in some twists to keep you all guessing. I'll admit, this is my very first mystery and I can't promise it will be anything spectacular. But I'll do my best. :) Meanwhile, keep the feedback coming please. This is really uncharted territory for Molly and Sherlock - but I'm trying to draw from Sherlock's relationship with John. Some of my favorite moments in the show are when the two of them just start laughing out loud (i.e. the 'are you wearing pants?' scene). I wanted to show that Molly and Sherlock's relationship had grown to the point where they too can enjoy those kind of moments. But of course, all this happened over a period of time that no one has witnessed and I have not described in great detail - so I leave the imagination of that metamorphosis up to you. **


	3. An Inconclusive Night

Bart's mortuary was pleasantly cool – a necessary condition when dealing with the deceased. Molly bent over the body of Mrs. Decker, carefully examining every square inch of her pale skin. The woman had a fair amount of bruises coloring her arms, legs, and even her shoulders. Given the fact that she was a diabetic though, it was not necessarily anything out of the ordinary. Mrs. Decker had been an attractive woman in her prime, and the years had been good to her; probably a fair amount of Botox and face serums had contributed as well. She was not very overweight, even for her age, so her diabetes was genetic and not a result of unhealthy habits.

Molly obtained some blood samples for Sherlock to begin his screening for drug overdose, poison, or other toxins. He collected them from her and set off for the lab to do his side of the work. He was a brilliant chemist, so she knew that if there was anything to be found, he would find it. She continued her examination of the outside of the body, carefully documenting any bruising or other abnormalities by photograph, before moving on to the messy part of her job.

For Molly, the first cut was always the hardest. She was very good at her job and she knew that the work she performed helped people, but she did not relish the task of opening up dead bodies. Over the years, she had become more and more desensitized to the idea, which almost bothered her. She could not perform her job without emotionally distancing herself. On the other hand, she always felt a strange connection to the people that she dissected. She valued them very much, and treated them with as much respect as was possible. After all, it may have been too late for them, but those bodies often held the secrets that could put criminals behind bars. She may not be like Sherlock, who chased after the villains and solved their heinous crimes – or the police, who had the distinct pleasure of putting the monsters away – but she had her part to play and she did it well.

After an extensive external and internal examination, she had found nothing; nothing conclusive anyway. She had done everything she could think of: examining the lungs, the stomach, even the poor woman's dysfunctional kidneys, looking for clues as to what had killed her. It was asphyxiation that had been to the true culprit, but as to what had caused the cease of lung function – she could not clearly determine it. If it had been as a result of hyperthermia, the internal temperatures should have left different signs on other organs as it shut them down. There was no bruising around her mouth, so it probably didn't happen from someone suffocating her – unless it was with something soft, like a pillow.

She closed Mrs. Decker back up and zipped her up neatly, before putting her body away in storage. She cleaned her instruments meticulously, as always, and put them away properly. By now, it was nearing dinner time, and she still hadn't even eaten lunch. Her stomach growled its disapproval as she headed to her office. She opened her locker, smiling when she saw two bags of crisps sitting on the top shelf. Grabbing both, she headed to the lab.

Sherlock was bent over the microscope, inspecting a blood sample and jotting down a few notes. He didn't look up when she entered, but his face formed a small frown when he heard her footsteps approaching him.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," she confirmed. "She asphyxiated. But from what, I have no idea."

"Did you bring me stomach and intestine samples?"

"Yes right here. Anything in the blood?"

"Not anything inconsistent with the medication she was taking. I found no levels of toxins that would have been life threatening or that should have caused heat stroke."

"Perhaps we'll find more from the stomach samples," Molly offered.

"Unlikely," he replied in a sour voice.

"Have you finished your screen?"

"Not yet, still waiting on a few more results to come through. The sheer amount of medication that she was taking to stay healthy is making it difficult to separate out certain markers. That and the infernal computer is running a scan in the background which is slowing everything down."

"You're not supposed to be running screens when the computer is scanning itself – it eats up too much RAM. No wonder you're having a slow time of it."

"Yes well, it's the only lab computer in here and I can't very well move to another lab now."

"It's alright, we're not in any rush, I suppose. Why don't I get started on those intestine samples first, eh? They should be the least time consuming."

He made a sound in his throat as a means of reply. She smiled and grabbed a bag of crisps out of her pocket, placing it on the table next to him. She knew he probably wouldn't eat them, but she still felt compelled to offer them to him. She quickly consumed her own snack before setting down to work. A half hour passed as they both toiled steadily in comfortable silence.

Then, an ear shattering yell from Sherlock nearly knocked Molly off her stool. She quickly stumbled over to his side.

"What? What is it?!" she cried.

"The damned computer just crashed! I just lost all my data – I'm going to have to run the screen all over again!"

He snatched up his notebook and threw it against the opposite wall before burying his face in his hands in frustration. There was nothing she could think so say to make the situation any better. She hesitantly reached over to place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. He sighed softly at the action, and she could feel his tense muscles relax a little under her touch. She considered kneading them, but she knew he would never just sit there idly as she massaged him. She pressed her thumb in one more time though, just to let him know what he was missing, before reaching down to reboot the computer.

Thus, the two of them spent the remainder of the evening running tests and recording the results. It was tedious, and by nearly two in the morning, they were exhausted and stiff. And in the end, neither of them had anything really to show for it. None of the tests they ran gave any hints as to what internally could have caused Mrs. Decker to die. They spent hours thinking up new screens they could run that might tell them something, and tried every long shot in the book and a few more not in the book. Apparently, Mrs. Decker – besides having suffered from a chronic illness – was in very good health. That is, until she died.

Molly finished picking up the lab and joined Sherlock downstairs in the lobby.

"So what now?" she asked him.

"We go home – it's time to call it a night," he replied, opening the door for her.

They stepped out into the close night air. Molly was amazed at how stifling it was, even long after the sun had gone down.

"I suppose it's a good thing Toby isn't a dog," Sherlock commented dryly. "He would have surely made a mess of the apartment by now."

"Oh no!" Molly exclaimed, as Sherlock caught the attention of a cabbie.

"What?"

"Toby!" she cried in dismay. "We forgot his litterbox."

"No, _I _forgot his litterbox," Sherlock ground out between clenched teeth. "I was the one who grabbed his things."

"Yes, but you don't even own a cat, it's not something you would think of. And apparently, I was too distracted to have been bothered with it either. It's alright; you take this cab home and get some rest. I'll catch another one and grab his box and be there straight away."

"No, it's fine. I'll come with you."

He ducked into the back seat and slid across it to make room for her. Molly gave the address to the cabbie and away they went.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

He sighed, leaning his bead back against the seat, modeling his position from earlier that day, "Stop apologizing for everything, Molly – it's annoying."

"Sor—" she caught herself. "Okay."

Molly lived close to Bart's, so it didn't take them long to get there. She was going to just run up quickly and come right back, but Sherlock surprised her by following her up the stairs, instructing the driver to wait for them. Molly unlocked the apartment and headed for the laundry room, where she found her sought after item. When she picked it up, she realized it was quite full, so she took a few moments to scoop out the contents. When she had finished, she carried the covered box out to the front door. Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

"Sherlock?"

"In here," he said, his voice emanating from the bedroom.

Curious, she went in to find what he was up to. She discovered him standing in front of her closet, now clad only in the white undershirt he had worn under his dress shirt.

"I thought I'd leave this one," he said, gesturing to the discarded shirt, "Since my supply of clothes here seems to be dwindling."

"You should have left your sweaty things from earlier then. I would have cleaned them and kept them," she suggested.

"But those were my favorite pants. I'm not here enough to justify leaving my best clothes here."

She looked down at the floor, "That's very true."

"What's this?" he asked suddenly, sliding a few of her hang ups to the side to expose a long garment bag.

"Just a dress."

"Oh…the black one?"

"What black one?"

"You know, the black one. The one you wore last Christmas, with the sparkles on the bust."

"No, it's not that one," she replied, remembering that night and coloring slightly.

He pulled the garment bag from the corner and unzipped it, revealing a floor length red dress. He caught up the skirt and let it spill out of the front. It was a halter top with a plunging neckline, embroidered tastefully with crimson beads that accentuated the curves and open back. On the hanger, the dress looked rather scandalous, and Molly tried to hide her embarrassment.

"We really should go, the cabbie is waiting."

"I've never seen you in this," he said, fingering the fabric delicately.

"I've never worn it," she admitted.

"Why did you buy it then?" he asked.

"I thought it would be a good idea to have a nice formal dress, in case the opportunity suddenly arose to need one," she explained.

The truth was, she had gone out and bought it not long after the events of the aforementioned Christmas. She had been feeling terribly insecure, especially after Sherlock had recognized Irene Adler from her naked body and not her face. She could have only come to one conclusion from that. It was an impulse buy that had rather backfired on her. She had bought it because wearing it made her feel beautiful. But what was the point of feeling beautiful yourself, if the person you want to see you as beautiful, doesn't?

"Indeed? When did you get it?" he asked.

"Christmas," she answered automatically.

"And you didn't wear it over?" he teased.

"It's a little formal for a Christmas party with friends, don't you think? Besides, I bought it after that night."

"I see," he said, and for a moment, she thought he had deduced everything that she had just been thinking.

He suddenly pushed the material back in to the bag and zipped it up again, "We'll have to find some excuse for you to wear it then."

"Why, what do you care?" she asked, with more bitterness than she had intended.

Being reminded of the events of last Christmas was painful. That whole holiday had been ruined for her. Sherlock had descended into some sort of depression, which she knew to be related to the topic of "the woman". She didn't know all the particulars, only that Sherlock had been obsessed with the case, and almost seemed to be emotionally involved. She had put herself out there for him at exactly the wrong time, so it seemed. He had quickly deduced her regard for him, and hadn't ever said a word about it. True, he had kissed her cheek – by way of apology for the awful things he had said – but, after that, he had ignored her almost completely. It wasn't until he came to her for help in the faking of his death, that they began to grow in friendship. But that was all it was – friendship. And that was all it would ever be.

"Because I'd like to see you in it," he replied, his voice deep and soothing.

She shut her eyes, feeling the sting of unbidden tears, "Let's go."

"What?" he asked, though he had heard her clearly.

"Nothing", she said, smiling away her sadness. "It's late is all, I'm tired."

"Alright."

They departed her flat in silence, and rode all the way to Baker Street in the same manner. It was nearly three in the morning by the time they pulled up. Molly dragged her feet up the stairs, almost stumbling were it not for Sherlock's hand on her elbow. They went inside and she immediately went to look for an accident the cat may have left. Thankfully, Toby had held himself in check – though he jumped in the litter box almost before she had set it on the ground. She set her satchel on the couch, fishing some sleep clothes out of it.

"Can I take a shower tonight?" she asked.

"Of course. Use the one in my room," he offered.

"Thanks."

She went to his room and entered the little bathroom on the left, annoyed that the door had a frosted window that one could see through. She was too tired to pay it much mind though. She brushed her teeth, stripped quickly, and stepped under the cool water. It felt glorious. Even though the flat was air conditioned, it was still stuffy. She washed the sticky sweat from her skin and scrubbed her hair thoroughly. Reluctantly, she shut the water off, reaching around the curtain to grab her towel off the vanity – only to discover she had forgotten to get one. She heard the door creak open and immediately pulled her hand back inside the curtain.

"I thought you might need this," Sherlock drawled, throwing a towel over the curtain rod.

"Thank you," she managed to choke out.

Here she was, completely naked, and only a thin curtain between the two of them.

"I hope you left some cold water."

"Plenty."

"Do you want me to hand you your clothes?"

"I would prefer you got out so I could change outside the shower," she replied.

She heard the door shut in reply. Poking her head around the curtain to make sure he was really gone, she cautiously stepped out and changed. She slipped on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts and wrapped the towel around her hair. She found him sitting patiently on the edge of the bed when she emerged.

"All free," she said shyly, not really sure what to say.

He rose from the bed and moved past her to the bathroom, standing in the doorway and looking back at her expectantly.

"I'm going to bed now – goodnight," she stammered.

"Goodnight, Molly."

She started to leave the room.

"Where are you going?"

"To bed? On the couch?"

"Sleep in here. I'll take John's bed."

"Are you sure?" she asked, fighting yet another blush.

"Of course. He's away, so there's no reason to leave the bed unused."

"Yeah, I guess. Well, I can sleep up there if you'd like to keep your own bed."

"You don't know John as well as you know me – I would think you would be more uncomfortable in his room than in mine."

"I really don't mind sleeping on the couch, you know."

"It's cooler in the bedroom, you'll get more rest in here. I need you alert for tomorrow, and you're not going to get that much sleep as it is. It's three in the morning, for god's sake, just get in the bed."

"Fine," she gave up, far too tired to argue with him further.

Unwinding the towel from her hair, she hung it up on the hook on the back of his door. She crossed over to his bed and crawled in under his unmade covers. The sheets smelled of lavender and the scent that was uniquely Sherlock's. Turning her back to him, she curled on her side and closed her eyes. She heard the door shut with a soft click. The sound of running water soon followed, and she desperately tried not to imagine the scene unfolding on the other side of that frosted glass. She was almost tempted to peek, but that was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, not some peeping school girl. She tried to fall asleep as he cleaned up, but despite her exhaustion, she could not stop her mind from racing with thoughts of him. She didn't know why she was so consumed by him today. She thought she had gotten past these feelings. Not that she had stopped loving him, but she was so much better now at controlling the raw, hurt emotions she had felt last year. The mention of Christmas has really gotten to her, and the familiar taste of jealously burned her tongue. She wanted to know Sherlock's relationship to that woman – of only so that she could experience the pain of knowing for sure and use it to distance herself further.

The shower shut off and she fought with the idea of asking him when he came out. She wouldn't normally dream of bringing up this subject, but perhaps the exhaustion made her bold. She wanted to know if she was occupying a place in this bed that had been occupied before by that woman.

The door opened and her time to decide was over.

"Did Irene Adler sleep here?"

It was out before she could call the words back. She heard him stop midstride. She held her breath for a five-count.

"Yes."

She pulled her knees a little closer to her chest. She knew he was just standing there, waiting for her to say something. She was frankly surprised that he had even answered.

"I wasn't here at the time though," he finished, after a moment.

Puzzled, she rolled over to face him, "I don't understand."

"I came home one day to find her in my bed, after she faked her death. We never occupied the same bed at the same time. Irene Adler and I were never…together…in the way that you think we were."

"Then how -?"

"Did I recognize her body when her face was smashed? Apparently I didn't, since that was not her body. But on the day I first met her, she decided to make the introduction in the nude. I think she felt she could throw me off by doing so."

"Then you…and she…"

"-Were never a couple. I was intrigued by her, I'll admit. When I thought she was dead, I mourned the loss of someone who had truly challenged me in intellect and cunning. I was tempted by her beauty and her mind. But she was a criminal. She consorted with Moriarty. So, there, you see? We're even."

"Even?"

"You dated Moriarty himself and I considered a relationship with one of his clients."

Molly was silent. Now that she had said what she had wanted to say for months now – and he had answered her in a way that she had never expected – she had no idea what to say next.

"Molly."

"I'm sor—no that's a lie. I'm not sorry I asked," she confessed.

"And I'm not sorry I answered. Don't compare yourself with her. You and she are as different as night and day. Do you understand?"

He paused for a long while, studying her face in the dark, choosing his next words carefully.

"Irene Adler was the woman I saved. You are the woman who saved me."

With those words, and a small smile tugging at his lips, he turned and left the room. He had given her a lot to think about. And yet, strangely, she did not dwell long on his words. He had assured her of her worth to him, and at the same time dispelled any feeling of jealousy she had towards the other woman in his life. They were not a couple. They never had been. She had been the inspiration for his faked death. And that was all. Well, maybe not all – but none of that mattered now because Irene Adler was somewhere far away right now. And here was Molly Hooper now, lying in Sherlock's bed. And she was not there because she had snuck in one night; she was there because she had been invited, by him. With that thought comforting her, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

That night, Sherlock did not retire up to John's room. He stayed awake the night long, seated in his chair, puzzling about the strange details of Mrs. Decker's death. He couldn't seem to focus on it steadily though – his thoughts kept on straying to the woman sleeping in his bed. Her boldness and the memory of that hopeful look in her eyes tonight, confounded him. Why did he care? Feelings were a weakness – hadn't Irene taught him that lesson well? And yet, he loved his friends in spite of himself. He loved John and Mrs. Hudson. He even had affection for Lestrade and included him in his circle of friends. Molly was his friend too. He wondered how he would react if it had been Molly on that table with a smashed in face instead of who, he thought, was Irene. His stomach contracted painfully at the very thought and he had his answer. He had been dismal when he thought Irene had been killed. If Molly were killed, he knew he wouldn't rest until he had sent her killer to hell. Not jail. Not out a window several times. Hell.

**K.K.: Not much further in the case, but perhaps a little further with each other. I promise more plot in the next chapter. I actually had not intended on bringing Irene up at all in this story, but I just re-watched "A Scandal in Belgravia" and felt as though some things needed to be addressed there. I couldn't just leave it as feelings that had worn off over time, because if I were Molly - I'd have to know. Jealousy is not something that just disappears. Irene was the woman who taught Sherlock he could feel, even though she was the wrong person to have feelings for. I acknowledge her as an important character in my story, because without her, Sherlock probably wouldn't be as far along as he is - emotionally, I mean. Well, that's it for now. As always, read and respond. I am thankful for all the reviews and suggestions. Love to all! ^_^**


	4. A Wasted Day

There was a little robin sitting on the sill outside Sherlock's bedroom window. He was a merry fellow, singing his cheeky little tune to impress a nearby ladybird. Unfortunately, he chose to perform his serenade at six o'clock in the morning, and Molly was determined to ignore him. She had somehow managed to incorporate his song into whatever dream she was currently having, and thus managed to sleep through nature's little alarm clock. Suddenly, the bird's singsong voice morphed into a deep, base sound, and seemed to have learnt her name. She liked the new pitch, for it was soothing and beautiful. How marvelous it would be to wake up to that sound every morning? She thought it to be the most wonderful voice in the world, as it caressed her ears with its demulcent tones. Then a gentle hand on her shoulder brought her to full wakefulness.

Molly groaned and stretched herself, rolling over on her back. She opened her eyes slowly, rubbing sleep out of them with her knuckles. Sherlock was standing at the edge of the bed, fully dressed in black pants and a gray button up. Of course, his was the angel's voice that had drawn her from her dreams. His eyes showed dark circles under them – so he didn't go to bed last night, after all – but apart from that, he looked alert and ready to go.

"Is it time to get up already?" she asked, her voice hoarse from what little sleep she had gotten.

"Yes. Lestrade just phoned me; they've got a new lead and are asking us to come in."

"Us?"

"Well…me. But you're with me, so that means 'us'. Now, c'mon, up and at 'em. I've got your clothes laid out."

Molly sat up and surveyed what he had chosen for her to wear. Her trousers from yesterday were spread across the covers, along with a fresh button up blouse that did not belong to her. It was a lightweight fabric, in a shade of cobalt blue that would be most flattering on her – if she ever paid attention to those sort of things.

"What is this? This isn't mine."

"It is yours, actually. I thought that since I have clothes at your house, you should have a few sets that remain here with me."

She threw the covers off and swung her legs out of bed, picking up the blouse to get a better look at it.

"Why not just ask me to bring some of the clothes already in my wardrobe over here? Did you buy this for me?"

"No, because, frankly, I despise most of your apparel; and yes, I bought that for you."

Molly flushed, "Well thank you – I think."

"Don't mention it. Now, get dressed – we leave in 15 minutes."

He left the room quickly, giving her privacy. She grumbled under her breath as she pulled her trousers on and donned the new blouse. It was more form fitting than what she usually wore, but clung to her in such a way as to accentuate her slim form. There was a seam under the bust that bunched the material above it, causing her to look a little curvier. She took a moment to appreciate Sherlock's fine taste; the top suited her perfectly. She went into the bathroom, splashed some cool water on her face and brushed her teeth. There was no time to fix her hair properly, so she elected to pull it into a simple pony tail again.

Emerging from the bedroom slightly refreshed, but still tired, she sought out something to eat for breakfast. Toby's food and water dish were already filled, she noted with pleasure. She discovered a muffin on the table, slathered with butter and honey, and a mug of coffee beside it.

"For me?" she asked Sherlock, who was busy checking something on his laptop.

"Yes."

She put the halves of the muffin together, like a sandwich, and fished a travel mug out of her satchel – you never know when you might need one - pouring the contents of the mug in it.

"I'm ready, let's go," she said, standing in the doorway.

His head popped up from his computer, obviously surprised that she had gotten ready so quickly.

"Whoever said women were incapable of getting ready in a timely fashion never met you, Miss Hooper," he commented, closing the laptop with a snap.

Together, they made their way downstairs and hailed a cab.

"So, what lead did Lestrade mention?"

"Actually, he was a bit cryptic about it on the phone. He wouldn't really tell me what it was; only that he needed my input on it."

"Interesting. He's usually so straightforward."

"Yes, it is strange."

They reached the precinct in good time, and headed up to Lestrade's office right away. The detective inspector was there at his desk, with a pile of papers strewn out in front of him. He looked up at them in surprise as they stepped into the room.

"I didn't expect you to come so soon," he said. "I thought it would take a little longer to collect Molly."

"She slept at my place last night," Sherlock explained.

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, "Is that a fact?"

"The AC is broken at my house, and Sherlock was kind enough to offer his flat, so I wouldn't have to suffer through this heat," Molly clarified hastily.

"Right. Okay, well…uh…"

"You have a lead for me, I believe?" Sherlock prompted, impatiently.

"Yes. Now look, I don't really know what you're relationship is with Ian Decker, so I want you to just sit and hear me out," Lestrade began.

Sherlock stared at him closely, but chose to remain silent and wait for the man to make his case.

"I reviewed those medical files that you sent to me last night. And according to your findings, there was no evidence that Mrs. Decker died of natural causes, is that right?"

"That is correct," Sherlock confirmed.

"Alright, so while you were busy with that end of it, we did a little more digging into her history. Turns out, Mrs. Decker was a very well off woman. Her husband was a government employee and he left her with a rather sizeable pension after his death. They only have the one child, and he is the sole beneficiary of all the assets, in the event of his mother's death. That includes a half million dollar life insurance death benefit, as well as what's left in her bank account and investment funds. All told, Ian Decker just became a multi-millionaire overnight."

"I'm assuming you're setting up a motive here for him to have killed his own mother," Sherlock stated drily.

"I'm not setting it up, it _is _a motive. I'm not saying that he did it; I'm just saying that, if he did, he had a pretty good reason right there. Also, we found no evidence of forced entry. If she was killed by someone, they had to have access to her apartment, and he was the only other person to have the key besides her."

"Ah, so motive and means. You've got two of the three, now what are you missing?" Sherlock challenged.

"He says he was away on a sporting trip for the week in the country…hunting and fishing. He claims he left on Wednesday, but since no one saw him leave, there's no way to confirm his alibi. There were others who were planning on meeting him Friday, when they got off on their extended weekend, but he was supposed to be there Wednesday and Thursday alone. No way to prove that he actually was there, one way or another."

"And there's your opportunity. Not enough to convict in a court of law, but it's a good start."

"How well do you know this guy, Sherlock?"

"Well enough to know that what you are suggesting is preposterous. But I could have told you that even if I had not met the man before in my life."

"Why is that?"

"First of all, if Ian really did murder his mother, and tried to make it look like just another random case of hyperthermia, he would have completed his weekend with his friends just as he had planned. If he really wasn't in the county on Wednesday or Thursday because he was too busy killing his mum, he would have still met his friends on Friday to support his alibi.

He was used to receiving a call or text from her every day, letting him know how she was doing. She was a fiercely independent woman, choosing to live alone despite her disease, and yet she had a close relationship to her son and kept in contact with him because he worried about her. That's how he discovered that she had died in the first place - she never texted him on Thursday. He tried to get a hold of her several times and failed. After the eighth time trying to reach her, he decided to drive back to London to check on her. That's when he found her dead.

He called the police immediately and reported her death. He suspected that something was amiss, since she was not sick and the AC had been supposedly functioning all that time. Just to make sure, he decided to phone me and ask me to personally look into the matter, knowing full well that I would accept, and solve the case. Now, if he really was the murderer, why would he report the death to the police so soon after the fact? Why not wait a little while for her body to properly heat up? Why not change the temperature control in the house, to support the idea that she was killed by hyperthermia, instead of arguing _against _the idea? And finally, why would he ask me to get involved, knowing me personally, and understanding full well that my presence would secure his fate as a murderer?"

"Those are all really good points, and I do agree with you that it's unlikely he's the culprit. But I'm going to have to investigate him, nonetheless," Lestrade said.

"Oh the world would be a much simpler place if juries would just accept my word as gospel, and then you could use your resources investigating the things that really matter," Sherlock complained.

"Like what?"

"As you said before, the killer had to have had access to the apartment, since there was no forced entry. Either they had a key – and, as you mentioned, Ian had the only spare – or they were let into the flat. We need a list of all the people who visited Mrs. Decker between Wednesday afternoon and Thursday evening."

"Got it. I'll see if there is any security feed in or around the apartment building."

"Good, I'll talk to Ian and see if I can learn anything else."

"Alright, thanks for the input."

"Text me if you get anywhere with the video feed," Sherlock instructed.

"Sure thing. Alright, see you later. Hey Molly," Lestrade called after her, as they both turned to leave.

"Yeah?"

"You get any sleep last night? You look exhausted. This lout didn't make you sleep on that god-awful couch all night, did he?"

Molly started to answer, but was cut off by Sherlock's voice from the door, "Don't be ridiculous. I did the gentlemanly thing and shared by bed, of course."

Molly wasn't looking at him, but she heard the sly grin in his voice. Utterly embarrassed, she quickly turned to make her exit, only to find his arm braced against the doorway, blocking her. She ducked under it without hesitation, and almost ran headlong into Anderson.

"Watch it, will you!" he snapped.

Sherlock turned on him instantly, barely concealed loathing evident on his face. To Molly, it almost looked as if he were snarling at the other man.

"Oh, it's you," said Anderson, his voice dripping with contempt. He glanced sidelong at Molly and then back to Sherlock, "Where's your boyfriend? Did he finally get sick of your complete lack of human feelings and find himself someone else?"

"And where do you get off saying a thing like that, you bastard?!"

Her voice was loud enough, that even Lestrade was gaping at her through the open door. Sherlock was staring at her rather wide eyed – she might have been tempted to laugh if she was not so pissed at the moment. Anderson, too, seemed speechless.

"I really don't understand you people. This man takes time out of his life to help you solve murder cases – for free! He's gone to hell and back, and almost single-handedly toppled one of the most extensive criminal organizations in the world, and you're going to stand there and slander him like that? Only a truly insecure, mouse of a man, like you, would even think to say something like that. Pathetic. C'mon Sherlock, we've got work to do," she ground out.

She swiftly made her exit, but not before slapping the stack of files Anderson was holding out of his hands. Sherlock followed her silently. In fact, the whole office had grown strangely quiet, except for the steady ringing of telephones. She marched her way out of the building and down to the street, still not looking back to read Sherlock's expression. She put her fingers to her lips and whistled loudly for a cab, which stopped immediately for her. She got in quickly, leaving their destination up to Sherlock to determine. He gave the cabbie an address and slid in beside her. They pulled away and several minutes passed before she could even look at him.

Finally, she gathered enough courage to glance at him. He was staring at her, as he had been since they got in the cab. His lips were slightly parted, but upturned in the corners and his eyes had narrowed to study her shrewdly.

"What?" she demanded.

"That was…not like you," he said, a note of wonder still in his voice.

"I have my mother's Irish temper; I just usually keep it in check. I don't like it when someone insults the people I care about, and when he said those things about you and John, I just wanted to punch him right in his weasel face."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't want you to think of me as a complete lunatic," she admitted.

"Molly Hooper," he stated, picking up her hand in his and holding it up, "I would give you anything your heart desired if you punched Anderson 'right in his weasel face'."

He kissed her hand with great theatrics, earning him and blush and a giggle from her, "I'll bear that in mind next time he opens his ugly mouth. So where are we going? I didn't hear what you told the driver over the sound of the blood rushing in my ears."

His rumbling laugh filled the back seat as he finally set her hand down, "To Ian's, remember? I need to verify his alibi and make sure there was no else with access to the apartment."

"Oh, right."

Twenty minutes later, they were standing outside the door of Ian Decker's house. Molly marveled at the beautiful, old structure as she entered. Clearly, the son was just as well off as the mother. His business must be successful. Ian answered the door himself, ushering them inside and leading them to a sitting room at the front of the house.

"I wanted to thank you again for taking the case, Sherlock," the young man said.

He was a handsome person, standing above six feet, with wavy blonde hair swept across his forehead. He had bright blue eyes, though not as light as Sherlock's. He was probably a couple years younger than the detective; though his face was weathered enough to show that he spent a lot of time outdoors in the wind and sun.

"Of course. Ian, this is Molly Hooper, my assistant on this case."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Molly said, shaking his offered hand. "Though I'm sorry it was under these circumstances."

"That is alright, Miss Hooper. We can't meet everyone in life in the best situations," he replied warmly.

"Ian, I have a few more questions, if you don't mind," said Sherlock, getting right to business.

"Of course, please sit down."

"First of all, was there anyone who saw you leaving for your holiday on Wednesday? Anyone who can verify that you were, in fact, not in London?"

Ian looked at him, understanding dawning on his features, "The police are investigating me. Of course, that's their job and with the money I just inherited, it must look pretty bad."

"It always looks bad when someone else gains a fortune from another person's death, but that is beside the point. Can you confirm your alibi?"

"No. I left in the afternoon after I had gotten off the phone with Mum. That was the last time I talked to her," he said, tears springing to his eyes.

"Yes, but did you talk to anyone else?"

"No, I just loaded up the truck and left. I spent Wednesday night at the lodge – the one we own. Then, when I couldn't reach mother at all the next day, I finally left in the afternoon, but didn't get back till about eight o'clock at night. That's when I found her," he stopped.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, his fingers steepled beneath his nose.

"You said truck, right?" Molly asked.

"Yes, why?"

"I saw a Mini Cooper parked out front. Is that your only vehicle?"

"Yes, but the equipment doesn't fit in the back of my car when I go on sporting trips, so-"

"So you have to rent a truck when you go to the country – very good, Molly!" Sherlock praised. "That's perfect."

"I was thinking that someone might have noticed his vehicle not in the driveway," Molly explained, not sure why he was so excited.

"I don't follow either," Ian admitted.

"Rental cars! Most companies put some sort of tracking devices in their cars so that they can't be stolen. If we can find the same truck that you rented, we can go to the company and find a log of where it has been in the last week."

"Really? Well, great. I have the receipt on my desk, I'll go get it," he said, retreated into his adjacent office.

"I should bring you along more often on cases," Sherlock stated.

"Oh no, that's John's department," she warned, although she was very glad of the praise. "I'm happy to fill in on occasions, but this sort of thing is not really my area. I prefer my quiet lab to all this running about."

"It's true that you might not always be able to keep up with the physical exertions. And we do get dangerous cases sometimes, which I would not want to involve you in. It's hard enough keeping John alive, and he's a doctor _and _a soldier."

Molly stifled a laugh at that. Ian emerged from the office, just then, with the receipt, which he handed to Sherlock.

"Thank you, this will be most helpful in getting the police's attention off of you and on to the real culprit."

"You think she was murdered then?" Ian asked.

"Perhaps. We can't find any evidence of her body failing on its own, which brings me to my next question. Is there anyone else, besides you, who had access to that apartment?"

"No, I'm the only one with a key."

"What about people your mother would have been expecting…someone who delivered groceries to her; or someone who administered in home medications?"

"No one. She lived a solitary life really, besides me. She didn't have very many friends, and none that would come over to the house," Ian said, lowering his eyes. "The truth is - she was a very bitter woman after my father passed away. She was cold to other people, beside me, and tended to keep to herself in recent years. There was nothing wrong with her, like dementia or anything like that; she just had enough with other people. She didn't like to depend on them for anything. She hated going to the hospital for dialysis, because it forced her to leave the house."

"I see," Sherlock said, frowning. "Well, thank you for the receipt. We'll go take care of this right away," he assured him.

Ian stood and shook both their hands. "No, thank you," he said, leading them back to the door.

They bid their farewells and Molly offered her condolences before they headed out again to track down the rental car company.

"Do you think the truck with have a tracking device?" she asked Sherlock.

"Let's hope so, because if it doesn't, it's going to be awfully difficult to prove his alibi," he replied.

Luck was with them, it seemed, for when they got to Auto Europe, the employees were most keen on assisting them – especially when Sherlock dropped the "m" word.

"It's amazing how anyone will do pretty much anything for you, once they know you're investigating a murder," Molly observed quietly, as they sat next to each other opposite a manager's desk.

The man had pulled the vehicle's file and was pouring over the records of the last week.

"Oh yes - any way they can be helpful and then wash their hands of the incident," he whispered back.

After about a half hour in the office, the man had pulled and printed all the records of the Land Rover from Monday till Friday, highlighting the dates and times they were looking for. He even printed out a map complete with longitude and latitude markers, showing that the truck was two counties away at the suspected time of Mrs. Decker's death. They thanked the man for his help and left the rental center.

"That should get the police off him," Molly commented.

"Yes, although, this is not conclusive evidence. Just because the truck was two counties away doesn't mean Ian was with it. He could have taken another vehicle and doubled back. I still need an eyewitness."

Sherlock's phone rang at that moment. He answered, and then broke into a wide grin after a short conversation with whoever was on the other end.

"What was that about?" she asked, after he hung up.

"Ian. We have our witness," he explained, hailing a cab and sliding in.

"Who?" she asked, following him into the car and waiting for him to direct the driver.

"It appears as though Mrs. Decker requested the aide of a visiting nurse to administer her dialysis. Ian didn't know about it and apparently this was the woman's first visit to the flat."

"When was she there?"

"Thursday."

"The day Mrs. Decker died."

"Precisely. If the nurse saw Mrs. Decker alive at the time of her appointment on Thursday afternoon, while the truck was still on route to London, then the only way that Ian could have killed her, would be if he did it right when he got home and then called the police immediately."

"The notes from forensics said that she had already entered rigor mortis by the time they arrived. She had to have been dead at least three to four hours. The log on the truck said that he arrived at her address at 8:06pm, which is what he claimed."

"The call to police went out at 8:11pm, and they were on scene fifteen minutes later," Sherlock added.

"Then he couldn't have done it," she stated.

"Yes. All we need is the testimony of the nurse, that Mrs. Decker was alive when she left her," he agreed.

Not long afterward, the cab arrived at Guy's Hospital in Southwark.

"Shiny," Molly stated, as she surveyed the glass tower set atop the building. "I'll stick with good ol' Bart's, thank you."

Sherlock smirked at her, "I, as well."

They entered the lobby, and Sherlock set about making his inquiry after the nurse. They were directed up five stories to the proper treatment floor. Sherlock went to the front desk and repeated his questions to the nurse on duty.

"Margaret Decker?" the woman asked.

"Yes, I need to know who administered her in home dialysis on Thursday afternoon."

"Ah, let me check - one moment," she set about to clacking the keys of her computer with long nails. "Here it is, Claire Tompkins."

"Do you know where I can reach her?"

"Actually, she's just finishing her shift right now. You might still be able to catch her before she leaves. Try down the hall on the right, the locker room is that way."

"Thank you," Molly said, leading the way. "You stay here, I'll see if she's in there."

"Fine," he said, posting himself outside the locker room doors.

Molly went inside, ignoring the Employees Only sign, "Excuse me? Is Claire Tompkins in here?"

"Yeah, one minute," a woman's voice answered her.

A few moments later, a woman appearing to be in her late thirties, emerged from behind the lockers.

"Can I help you?" she asked, warily.

"I hope so. We are investigating the sudden death of one of your dialysis patients and it could be that you were the last person to see her alive. Would you step outside with me?"

"My goodness, that's awful. Oh yes, of course."

Miss Tompkins followed her out into the hall and Molly introduced Sherlock.

"I know who you are," the woman greeted him. "I thought that you only investigated things like murders though."

"We believe this _is _a murder, Miss Tompkins. Tell me, did you see a Margaret Decker this Thursday last?"

"Yes. I had an appointment with her to set up her dialysis machine. She was just going to start in home treatments, so I had to bring the machine over and install it. Usually I have a tech guy to help me with the equipment, but there was a mix up and I delivered it and installed it myself."

"I see. And how did Mrs. Decker look to you when you saw her?"

"She seemed fine. Maybe a little fatigued, but other than that – she seemed in perfectly good health. Are you saying someone murdered the poor old thing?"

"It's beginning to look that way," Molly said.

"My god, I can't even imagine who would do such a thing. Poor lady."

"You said that you installed the dialysis equipment yourself?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, we got all the way through set up, but then there was a malfunction with the machine and I had to take it back to replace it. It was a little frustrating for both of us – especially after the day I had. I'd been out all morning on visits, and then I found out the tech guy was delayed somewhere, so I picked up the machine and installed the bloody thing myself, only to find out it wasn't working. We rescheduled an appointment for this coming Tuesday to install the new one though."

"I see. What time was the appointment on Thursday?"

"Noon."

"And what time did you leave?"

"About a half hour later."

"Could we have a print out of your schedule that day, so that I can confirm the times for our report?" Molly asked.

"Certainly, anything I can do to be of help."

"You've been more than helpful, Miss Tompkins," Sherlock assured her.

They followed her to the nurses' station and got hard copies of the records. Molly and Sherlock thanked her once again for her assistance and left to return to the precinct with their new evidence.

"What do you think?" Molly asked. "She had the means and opportunity to do it."

"Yes, but where is the motive? Why would a visiting nurse, someone whose job it is to help the sick and infirm, kill her own patient?"

"True, doesn't seem very likely."

"We need to find out who else could have visited Mrs. Decker between 12:30pm and 8:00pm. Whatever happened to her, happened within those seven and a half hours."

"Right."

* * *

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. Molly and Sherlock returned to the precinct and showed Lestrade the new evidence exonerating Ian of suspicion. The police were still working on trying to find any footage of the apartment. Now that they had a set time span to look for, the process might prove to be easier. Anderson was not at the office when they returned, thank goodness. After spending some hours conferring with the department and reviewing the evidence they had on file, Molly and Sherlock decided to go back to his flat. It was getting late, and Sherlock knew Molly was on her last legs. They went back, ordered Chinese takeout, and poured over the notes they had collected from the previous night. Molly thought that it was just like old times, as they sat at the kitchen table, strewn with papers and take away boxes. She noticed he still wasn't eating anything, but any attempt she made to encourage him to take something was dismissed. She could tell that he was irked with the progress they had made. While they had proved that Ian was not a valid suspect, Sherlock had been forced to spend a whole day proving something he already knew to be fact. It was a wasted day, in his eyes.

Molly feel asleep around midnight, absolutely drained from their long day of running all over London after getting less than three hours of rest the night before. Sherlock didn't even notice that she had nodded off till about two hours later, when he looked up to see her sitting across from him with her head on the table, sound asleep. He got up and gently pulled her into a sitting up position. She must have been truly exhausted, for when her head rolled back against his shoulder, she did not even stir. He smirked when he noticed she had ink stains on her cheek that had transferred from the paper she had collapsed on. Moving gingerly, he managed to extract her from the chair without waking her. He took her to his room and laid her on the bed, covering her up with a thin sheet. It was still warm and she was fully dressed, so he decided not to pull up the duvet.

He had fully intended to go back to the kitchen and read some more, but there was really no use. His next move was to go to the hospital in the morning to see if he could obtain Mrs. Decker's medical records. There might be something in there that could shed some new light on the case. What he really needed was that video surveillance. Neither of those things could be accomplished tonight though, so he decided to sit in his room and brainstorm all night. He pulled a chair up by the window and sat down, assuming his "thinking" pose, with fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He usually spent this time staring blankly in front of himself and dwelling on the facts he had – arranging and rearranging them in his mind – trying to arrive at some new conclusion. Instead, his gaze kept on focusing on the sleeping form in his bed, and his mind was willingly following his eyes. He considered some facts pertaining to her instead of the case, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn't arrive at a conclusion about Molly Hooper either.

**K.K.: Okay, so now we're getting somewhere. We know who it's not...so now we have to find out who it is. I had a ton of fun writing this chapter - I hope that it's flowing nicely for you all. I'm trying to capture enough details, without bogging you down with 20 pages worth of meaningless information and dialogue. As it is, this one was a bit longer than normal. Please tell me what you think, your reviews are so helpful! **

**SammyKatz, I really liked your suggestion of Molly punching Anderson. I wasn't ready to make her quite that bold, just yet - but she was definitely considering it. And now, if she ever does get pissed enough to punch him, she has a really nice reward that she can collect on. That whole scene with Anderson was for you. :P Good suggestion. **


	5. An Inspirational Snogging

Molly's mobile phone chimed its normal 6:45am alarm, drawing her out of sleep. She yawned and pulled the covers up over her head. She still felt tired, despite having gotten almost seven whole hours of rest. That was right, wasn't it? She didn't know for sure what time she had fallen asleep, but the last clock she remembered seeing read 11:51pm, so it had to have been around midnight that she dozed off. It was the clock on the microwave - in the kitchen. How had she gotten into the bedroom, then?

She sat up, realizing immediately that she was still wearing her clothes from yesterday. She glanced around the room, and started when she saw Sherlock sitting in a chair next to the window. He was awake, but didn't seem to have taken notice of her movement.

"Sherlock?" she tried to get his attention.

He was still staring at a point more or less in front of the bathroom door.

"Sherlock?" she called, more loudly this time.

Still, she received no response from the zoned out detective. Feeling a little cheeky, she grabbed the pillow she had slept on and whipped it at his head. She admired his reflexes as he blocked the incoming missile, turning to stare at her in surprise.

"What was that about?"

"I was calling you, you didn't answer," she shrugged.

"I do that sometimes, you know that," he defended.

"I know; you practically lived with me for five months. Doesn't mean I can't think of inventive ways to break your concentration. How did I get here anyway?"

"Get where?"

"In bed. I was certain that I fell asleep at the table."

"You did," he confirmed.

"Then how did I get in here? Did you wake me up?"

"No."

"You carried me?" she asked, incredulously.

Sherlock offered her a small smile, "Did you think it beyond my strength?"

"Of course not, I'm not a heifer. I just wouldn't have expected you to do that."

"I wouldn't leave you out there all night; you'd be stiff as a board this morning. And we have work to do," he said, finally extracting himself from the chair.

"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" she said in an accusatory tone.

"Of course not, there's far too much left unsolved."

"And did you solve anything by staying up all night?"

"No," he admitted.

"Then why do it at all? You have got to take better care of yourself, Sherlock! Especially in this heat! You're not a machine, you're a man. You do have limitations – and running yourself ragged in addition to half starving yourself isn't going to accomplish anything other than to make you sick."

"Molly, I have been living this way my whole life, it's how I do things. We've had this discussion before, and you're not going to make me change my ways just because you think it's unhealthy. It's how I _work_."

"Yeah, well the way you work is irresponsible," she said, irritated that he still wouldn't listen to her.

He didn't answer her, but his expression suggested displeasure. He looked so exhausted. His face was drawn in and his eyebrows seemed to be frozen in a furrowed position. His skin was pale and thin, and even his lips seemed to have shrunk. He hadn't been drinking enough water – only coffee to keep him awake. Molly got up and searched for her satchel. He had brought it into the bedroom last night, as well as plugging her phone into the charger and leaving it on the nightstand. She picked an outfit from the clothes she had brought and went into the bathroom to shower and change.

Fifteen minutes later, she was cleaned, dressed, and ready to go. Sherlock was in the kitchen, finishing off another mug of coffee. Her beverage was sitting in her travel mug, ready to go. She found a box of wafers in the pantry and snagged a couple before heading out. The heat outside was even more oppressive than it had been over the last two days. Even before eight o'clock, the air felt heavy and humid. A sheet of sweat immediately sprung up across her forehead, making her wonder why she even bothered with the shower in the first place.

Their first visit was to the police precinct, to pick up a subpoena for Mrs. Decker's medical records. Lestrade had assured him that it would be ready first thing in the morning for him to take to the hospital. True to his word, the paperwork was ready and Sherlock was free to obtain the data they needed.

"Where are we with the video surveillance?" Sherlock asked the detective inspector.

"We got feed from several sources, but none of them are permanently trained on the front entrance of the apartment. They are splicing together all the film from noon to six, so that we can make sure we don't miss anything."

"Sounds tedious – I'm glad you're covering that."

"Yeah, thanks. Anyway, I'll text you as soon as we find anything. Once we get shots of all the faces going in between those hours, we can run it by the manager and weed out all the tenants. That should narrow it down considerably."

"Yes, it was on a workday during work hours, so there shouldn't be many non-resident visitors to choose from," Sherlock agreed. "Alright, let's get to the hospital and see what we can find with those records."

Molly followed after him and they set out for their next destination. The cab drive to Guy's Hospital was unbearable. The car had no working AC and the two of them felt as if they were cooking in the back seat. To make matters worse, Sherlock had chosen a dark shirt to wear that day – as he was running low on light colored ones – and it seemed to be absorbing heat exponentially. His hair clung to his forehead and neck, and he had to keep swiping perspiration out his eyes. Normally, Molly would find this rather attractive, but she was too worried about him getting dehydrated to take pleasure in his sweaty splendor.

Once at Guy's, they made short work of obtaining print outs of Mrs. Decker's medical files. There was a shortage of places where they could review the files, but the hospital was nice enough to lend them an air conditioned training room was that not in use, at the time. The only problem was, the AC unit had just failed, and the room was growing steadily hotter. Sherlock was in rare form though, and refused any of Molly's pleas to find a more suitable location for their research.

"This won't take long," he argued. "All we have to do is cross reference what she was taking with what was being subscribed and scan for any other abnormalities that could have caused sudden death via asphyxiation."

"Yes, I know that – but why are we staying here in this stuffy room to do it?"

"Because I don't feel like carting all this paperwork to the nearest air conditioned bakery just so _you _can feel a little more comfortable."

Molly snapped her mouth shut with a clack of teeth, and grabbed half the stack of paperwork to look through. Nearly an hour of tense silence later, they had reviewed all the paperwork and found absolutely nothing…again. All the medications lined up, and there was nothing in Mrs. Decker's records to indicate that there was anything wrong with her, besides diabetes. Molly hastily stacked all the sheets of paper, grouping them in their proper stacks, before stuffing them in her bag.

"Well that was a waste of time," she commented drily.

"As I imagined it would be, but we have to be thorough on this one," Sherlock said. "We're missing something; something important – crucial."

He scrubbed the back of his head furiously with his hand; a sure sign that he was at his wit's end. Molly knew all the signs, and he was steadily ticking them off one by one. Irritability. Pacing. Messing up his hair. Random outbursts. Hostile language. He was definitely stumped on this one.

"Look, once we have the video feed, we'll be able to figure it out. That has to be the last piece of evidence we need," she said, leading them out a side door that ran between two building and then out to the street.

"Last piece of evidence," he scoffed. "Last piece of evidence to what? We don't have _anything_. We know that it wasn't Ian, but apart from that, we have nothing else to go on. There could be over a dozen people who show up on that video between noon and six who aren't tenants, and we have no way of knowing why they were there, short of interviewing everyone in the building!"

"Sherlock, you need to calm down-"

"Why? Why should I 'calm down'? Is it bothering you? Can you not understand why I am frustrated? This case should have been solved in minutes, and instead it just keeps dragging on longer and longer and longer…"

"So the case might not have been solved in record time – is that really why you're angry?" she asked, putting her hand on his arm and stopping him.

They stood in a narrow stretch of alley between the treatment wing of the hospital and the adjacent teaching building. The area was deserted and therefore a better place to hash out their disagreement than in the middle of the courtyard, twenty meters away from them.

"It's not even the timing of the whole thing," Sherlock replied, his voice loud and agitated. "It's the case itself. This is not my area. I hunt serial killers. I solve the mysteries that the police can't handle. This is something they could solve on their own, without me. If not for Ian, I would never have even considered taking this one."

Molly stared at him for a moment, anger boiling up inside of her, "I beg your pardon? It's not _exciting _enough for you, is that it? I can't believe this. You think this is beneath you because it's not a high stakes game with Moriarty? The police could solve it on their own, huh? And yet, here we are, three days later – the case isn't solved – and you've been involved with it since the beginning! Clearly, it's not as cut and dry as that! Damn your foolish pride, Sherlock! It's the same as with the food and sleep deprivation!"

"Oh not this again!" he cried, turning his back on her and pacing to and fro.

"You just assume that you'll figure everything out in six hours or less, because you're _that _good! You've done it before, so why not all the time? The eating slows you down and the sleeping just takes time away from thinking about the case and solving its mysteries. And now it's been over 48 hours – you haven't eaten anything, you haven't slept, and you're dehydrated because you've been sweating all this time and not drinking any water to replace your fluids."

"Enough, Molly! I'm fine. Stop worrying over the mundane necessities of life! I know my body's limitations. I don't need to eat or sleep yet, I've been much longer without either!" He turned around quickly to face her, almost staggering as he approached, "So, for god's sake, just shut up about it!"

"I will NOT!" she said, standing her ground and crossing her arms over her chest. "I care about you a whole lot - heaven help me - and I'm not going to stand by another minute and watch you waste away over something as stupid as your pride! I will _not _shut up and nothing you say or do is going to make me, until you slow down and listen to me!"

She had a whole lot more to say, but she was cut off when Sherlock rapidly closed the distance between them, pushing her against the brick building behind her. His hand found its way to the back of her head, his fingers digging into her ponytail and pulling it loose as he jerked her head up with his grip. Her hands flew to his chest to push him away, but her struggle halted when his mouth covered hers in a savage kiss. Utterly shocked, she could only stay frozen as he assaulted her lips. His wasn't shy about using his tongue and his teeth, nipping her lower lip and grazing his canines over her chin, before falling on her neck in the same manner.

She was unable to stop a small moan from escaping her throat as he pressed himself against her, trapping her between his body and the unforgiving bricks behind her. How long had she dreamt of this? Imagined him kissing her and holding her in this possessive manner? His hands weren't idle either. The one that wasn't fisted in her hair was exploring her hip and then her backside, with the ambition of Magellan. He had managed to fit almost her whole right buttock in his hand and was squeezing as if he intended to take it with him.

When his mouth discovered hers again, she found herself kissing him back. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling herself up closer to his height, as her fingers tangled themselves in his brown curls.

"Why – are you…doing this?" she asked against his mouth.

"Because. You said – I couldn't – make you," he replied between rather harsh bites.

"It wasn't – a challenge," she responded as best she could, fairly certain that she now tasted blood.

"Wasn't it?" he pressed her further against the wall, his left hand sliding up her side to her…

"Sherlock!" she protested, now adamant on putting a stop to this.

There was no denying that she was enjoying this sudden display of romantic affection for her. It was what she had been dreaming of for a very long time, after all. But something was wrong. This wasn't like him at all. She had never really imagined it like this. Well, she imagined the snogging, and the groping and all that – but not in the middle of an alley in broad daylight! What was the matter with him? He was acting like he was drunk. His hands and his mouth were exploring every inch of her, but it was not in the meticulous, steady way that she had assumed it would be. His movements were clumsy and sluggish. Even if he was not experienced at this sort of thing, he shouldn't be quite this awkward and definitely not this aggressive.

He slowed his advances, but remained clinging tightly to her, his face turning to press itself against hers. His cheek was warm and slick with sweat. No, it wasn't just warm, it was hot. He was burning up! Molly put her hand on his forehead and then pressed her cheek against it to confirm.

"Sherlock, you've got a terrible fever!"

"What?" he asked, frowning down at her.

"Oh good grief, come with me," she cried, grabbing his arm and dragging him with her.

She mentally composed herself as she pulled him along the outside wall of the treatment center, trying to find the nearest entrance. It just wasn't fair. She finally received the sort of attention she'd been craving from him for almost two years, and the only reason he did it was because his bloody fever was so high, he couldn't think straight. It was a wonder he was even able to stand up.

Finally, she found an entrance that wasn't locked from the inside. Sherlock had been following her without much of a fuss, which was slightly alarming. As they walked through the doors, he stumbled slightly. Molly pulled his arm across her shoulder, though not confident that she'd be able to hold him up if he fell. Luckily, the closest nurse's station was just down the hall.

"Excuse me!" Molly called, once they were within earshot of a group of medical staff. "Please, I need some help here! This man has hyperthermia; he needs an IV right away!"

Several heads turned in her direction, and a stout little woman hopped to attention immediately, "Treatment room 7 just opened up, let's bring him in there."

She helped Molly bring him around the corner and into a room, setting him down on the cot, despite his mild protests that he was fine.

"Has he gone through triage?" a nurse behind the desk called to Molly.

She poked her head out of the room to answer, "No, we were here on police business checking records of one of your patients. He starting acting – strangely – and I noticed that he had a high fever. Here, hand me a chart, and I'll fill out his information."

That seemed to get the nurse to relax a little.

"Oh my God, his temperature is 40.55C!" the nurse exclaimed. "William, get some fluids in here, we need to get this fever down!"

An IV frame was wheeled into Sherlock's room and the little nurse wasted no time in getting him hooked up to it. She gave him a glass of water, stirred some electrolyte powder into it, and made him drink it. Next, they got pans of ice water and soaked his feet in them, sponging his face and hair as well. Molly finished his paperwork and returned to his side. His temperature was coming down steadily, and the medical staff declared him out of any danger. The small nurse – Darlene was her name – told Molly that she would get the next available doctor on their floor to look at him. She gave Molly instructions to keep sponging him and then left to finish her rounds.

Molly picked up the sponge and soaked it in the ice water, applying it to Sherlock's face and throat. He was lying quietly on the hospital bed, his head tipped back against the dense pillow.

"I suppose this is where you tell me, 'I told you so'," he said softly.

"No. No, I'm not going to rub it in," she answered, brushing his hair off his forehead. "You scared me, you know that?"

"Molly," he paused, licking his lips and trying to form the right words. "I didn't mean to—"

"I wasn't talking about that. I meant your fever. It was dangerously high. You could have had permanent brain damage," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I feel fine now," he offered.

"That's good."

She tentatively unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and dampened the skin around his collarbones. He sighed at the touch and closed his eyes.

"Will you…keep doing that?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course. Here—" she undid the rest of his shirt and rubbed down his chest and stomach. "Is that better?"

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding like a purr.

She smiled at him, though he could not see it. Sherlock was like a child when he was sick – needy and dramatic. She continued to bath him, enjoying this rare moment of him letting her take care of him. His aggression had completely dissipated, and he seemed to be taking a break from his normally manic behavior. He must to have realized the severity of what had happened – both the danger he had put himself in and the weight of his actions with her. Of the latter though, he seemed intent on avoiding the topic. It was fine with her; she was not anxious to have the discussion of what it _meant_. She knew, all too well, that it really meant nothing. He was half delirious with fever; he was not himself; therefore, he could not be held responsible for his actions. Best not to read into what had happened. It was a nice memory, and that was all it would ever be.

Thirty minutes passed, and a doctor came by to check on Sherlock. He did a quick examination, declaring him fit to leave, but giving him strict orders to take it easy for the rest of the day. Molly rolled her eyes behind his back – that was never going to happen. Sherlock thanked the doctor as he buttoned his shirt back up and prepared to leave. Molly gathered her things, and the two of them left the hospital; the precinct being their destination, once again.

"I'm surprised you didn't put up much of a fuss in there," Molly commented, as they slipped into a cab.

"Please. You know how doctors are – you _are _one – always fretting about this and that. If I had acted like myself, they never would have let me out," he said, flashing her a lopsided grin.

Gone was sick and needy Sherlock. The sparkle was back in his eye and the thrill of the case was running through his blood. He wasn't even acting frustrated about the dead ends anymore. Amazing what a few bags of fluids and a sponge bath could do for the man. Molly fought the urge to laugh at him. She was about to retort with a sarcastic remark, but was cut off when Sherlock's phone rang.

"Tell me you have something," Sherlock answered. There was a long pause, followed by, "What? Are you sure? Right. Okay. I'm on my way."

Sherlock hung up and cocked his head to the side, as if deep in thought.

"What is it?"

"I think Mrs. Decker was killed as a result of hyperthermia, after all," he stated, matter-of-factly.

"What? But we couldn't prove that medically."

"No, because she was not the one with hyperthermia."

"I don't understand. How could it kill her if she didn't have it?"

He cast a sidelong glance at her, "Because her murderer had it."

**K.K.: Well, there's your face smashing, Angelovergirl. Happy? Bet you all weren't expecting that, were you?  
**

**Oh my goodness, this was a difficult chapter to write. I had to cover a lot of ground in not a lot of time - I hope it didn't seem too rushed. I was trying to convey that everything was going fast paced, and it was all catching up to our poor detective. But it's all good, because if that little episode hadn't happened, Sherlock might not have made the mental leap he just did to figure it out. Find out who it is in the next - and final - chapter. Dun, dun, dun! I'm kidding, it's not that complicated. I can't believe I'm almost done. Reviews, people! Love to all! ^_^**


	6. A Case of Two Confessions

Molly stared at Sherlock, confusion still written all over her face, "The killer had hyperthermia? How do you know that?"

"I don't," he paused with his fingers steepled under his nose, "But it's the only way I can imagine a nurse killing her own patient."

"Claire killed Mrs. Decker?"

"That was Lestrade on the phone, as I'm sure you guessed. They've been through all the tapes from noon to six, and the only person who appeared at the apartment building during those hours – who was not a tenant – was Claire Tompkins. So, if Mrs. Decker did not die of natural causes, and the only person who came into contact with her was her nurse; then it must have been Miss Tompkins. The real question is why she would do such a thing. There is no clear motive. If she had truly never met the woman, what would be her reason for killing her?"

"Maybe she was lying about never meeting her before. Perhaps there was a vendetta – maybe involving the son?"

"That is possible, and we will certainly have to verify what she was telling the truth about. I am certain that she was not lying to us the whole time we spoke to her. In fact, I wasn't even sure that she was lying to us at all."

"You suspected she was holding something back when we talked to her?"

"Yes, but I assumed it had more to do with the circumstances surrounding the tech man who was supposed to help her install the dialysis machine. Her eyes darted to the right when she said that, a clear indication of a falsehood or an omission. But she looked me in the eye when she said she had only just met Mrs. Decker."

"So you think she had hyperthermia; and what—killed her in a crime of passion?"

"It's a long shot, but yes – that is what I think. Remember what she said before, when she told us about her day? That she had already been to several patients and then had to fetch the machine and bring it in to Mrs. Decker. She was running from location to location all morning, and Thursday was a very hot day. Now, I don't think that she flew off into a fit of rage and killed Mrs. Decker just because she was experiencing hyperthermia – there had to be another factor."

"Like what?"

"Did you notice what she did when she was leaving, after she gave us the print out of her schedule?"

"I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary."

"She thrust her hand in the pocket of her scrubs, as if she was compulsively checking to make sure she had not forgotten something."

"Her keys, maybe?"

"No, those were in her handbag. What was in her pocket had been kept there all day, and she was terrified of leaving it behind," he paused and looked at her pointedly, as if willing her to make the connection.

Molly thought for a moment before answering, "Pills? An addiction?"

He smiled at her with approval, "Precisely. Her hands were shaking by the time we bid her farewell. I assumed it was only because she wanted whatever was in that bottle, but perhaps it was something more. She was shaking because she had just lied to a detective, and whatever was in that bottle would calm her nerves. I'm guessing anti-anxiety medication."

"That would fit. You know, some anti-anxiety medications have paradoxical side effects. They can cause the patient to have fits of rage, instead of calming them down. Perhaps, if she was suffering from hyperthermia, one of those side effects was triggered. Especially if she was addicted to them, which is quite common with anti-anxiety medication," she added.

They pulled up to the precinct just then. They hurried inside, eager to talk to Lestrade about their new theory.

"None of this is conclusive yet," Sherlock warned her, as they headed to the office. "But since she was the only person to visit Mrs. Decker during those hours, we definitely have enough to bring her in for questioning."

"Are you going to look at the tapes?"

"Of course."

They entered Lestrade's office for the second time that day; their moods considerably better than they had been this morning.

"Hello again," he greeted them. "Sherlock, your clothes are soaked, what happened?"

"He had heat exhaustion," Molly explained. "We had to give him an IV and a sponge ba—"

"I'm fine now," Sherlock interrupted, sliding into the seat across from Lestrade. "Do you have the video?"

"Molly sponge bathed you?" Lestrade asked; a wicked smirk on his features.

"The tape," Sherlock repeated, clearly not amused with this line of questioning.

The detective inspector looked up at Molly, who nodded her head to confirm his query - a small smile playing on her mouth. He shook his head in mild wonder before getting back to the topic at hand.

"Right, the tape," he began. "Got it all right here. Took us a while to piece all the fragments of feed together, but this is what we've got."

He picked up a remote control from his desk and pointed it at a small television on his bookshelf. With 'play', the video commenced, clearly showing Claire Tompkins entering the building with a large box, obviously heavy. She seemed distraught, as she balanced the box in front of her to ring herself up. She had a short conversation, the door opened, and she disappeared inside.

"The time stamp on the video read 12:13pm. So she was late," Sherlock stated. "The appointment was for noon."

Lestrade fast-forwarded the video to the point when she left. Molly and Sherlock watched the nurse exit the building, still holding the large box. She moved a little off to the left side of the door, setting the box down on a bench near the entrance. She fished a small bottle out her pocket and ingested some of the contents. She fumbled with the cap and replaced it in her pocket, before hailing a cab and leaving.

"Sherlock? Didn't she say she left about a half hour after the appointment?"

"Yes, she did. Her sense of timing was about forty-five minutes off."

"Is there any reason why she would have spent so much time in there?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, if she killed her patient and took some time to cover it up."

"You think it was her?"

"We have eliminated Ian as a suspect, and we are almost certain she did not die of 'natural' causes. If she did not die from illness, and Ian didn't kill her, then whoever else was in the apartment with her must have done it. According to this video, the only person who saw her that day, between those hours, was Claire Tompkins."

"Yeah, but why would she kill her own patient? What if the person who killed her was already in the building?"

"Unlikely. Mrs. Decker kept to herself, and everyone else gave her a wide berth. She could be a bit standoffish, but not enough for someone to want to kill her."

Sherlock filled Lestrade in on his theory about Miss Tompkins.

"Do you have anything else on her? A file? Anything?" he asked Lestrade.

"No, we didn't even interview her, since you brought us all that information. So what do you suggest we do now? We've put her at the scene of the crime and we know she lied to you. But without more evidence linking her to the actual death, we can't make an arrest."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. She is a person of interest, and therefore can only be brought in for questioning. However, I had an idea that you might be interested in."

* * *

An hour later, Lestrade, Donovan, Sherlock, and Molly were all headed back to Guy's Hospital. Molly was glad that her role, in what was about to happen, was a small one. The four of them strode into the treatment wing on the fifth floor, immediately honing in on their target. Lestrade and Donovan took point, closing in on an unsuspecting Claire Tompkins. She caught sight of them right before they reached her, the color visibly draining from her face. Lestrade smelled blood in the water and pounced on his quarry.

"Miss Tompkins, is it?"

"Yes?" she squeaked.

"You'll be coming with us. We have questions involving the death of your _patient_, Margaret Decker."

A hush descended over the entire area, drowning out the sounds of the normal goings on. Miss Tompkins balked, looking around her nervously. This time, Molly caught the movement as her hand darted to her pocket. Definitely addicted.

"I…I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?" Donovan pressed, closing in on the woman.

"It seems you lied to our investigators, Miss Tompkins. Perhaps you'd like to tell us the truth right now? What time did you really leave Mrs. Decker's apartment? Why did it take you over an hour to do a fifteen minute job? What was it she did that drove you to kill her? No? Nothing? Donovan, take her bag and her pills, we don't need this one ODing in the police car on the way in."

Tompkins was so astonished, that she didn't even protest when Donovan took her bag and lifted the bottle of pills from her pocket. She seemed on the verge of tears. Lestrade dealt one final blow.

"I've got to hand it to you though, leaving her there and making it look like just another case of hyperthermia – pretty smart. Too bad you left a bit too much behind."

That was Sherlock's cue.

"Hold on, just a moment, Inspector," he protested. "I didn't give you all that information just so that you could treat Miss Tompkins like a common criminal!"

"You said she was the killer, Sherlock."

"Well, yes, undoubtedly. But, as I explained before, she was not in her right mind. It's not like she _planned _anything that happened. It was the combination of the hyperthermia and the side effects of the anti-anxiety medication."

"She's a murderer, what does it matter what she was taking?" Donovan argued, holding Miss Tompkins firmly by the arm.

"It does matter. I'm telling you, she's not a cold blooded killer. Look at her, she's terrified."

"I'd be terrified too if I knew the police just found out I killed someone," Lestrade retorted.

"Please, just handle her more carefully. She already has a fragile state of mind and you're threatening to ruin her. She'll probably get off on an insanity plea anyway."

"Not likely, just because she's got anxiety issues doesn't mean she's insane. 'The drugs made me do it' is not a defense that's going to hold up in court."

"Please, you don't understand!" Miss Tompkins interjected, finally finding her voice. "You don't know what it's like! The drugs sometimes send me into fits of rage. I don't even know what I'm doing when it happens. I wasn't even aware of what was happening!"

"Precisely," Sherlock defended. "You probably couldn't even remember killing Mrs. Decker, could you?"

"No. I remember the bloody machine not working. And then she got so mad, and started saying all these awful things about how incompetent I was. And the next thing I remember, she was lying there dead…and I had a pillow in my hand," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to kill her! It was an accident! I was out of my mind, like he said."

She turned to look at Sherlock, her one defender in all of this. Except, now he was smiling at her – and it was not a nice smile. He shared a satisfied look with Lestrade.

"Thank you, Miss Tompkins, for your confession of guilt," Sherlock sneered. "It makes all this _so _much easier. One more thing, which anti-anxiety drug was it? I'm sure the pharmaceutical company will want to add 'don't take when there's a heat wave because you might kill someone' to the warning label."

Her face changed from confusion, to horror, to anger. Molly almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She turned off the recorder concealed in her hand. A taped confession to the police: this woman was going to go away for a long time. She handed the recorder to Lestrade, who accepted it with an appreciative nod.

"Thank you, Molly. Claire Tompkins. You are under arrest for the murder of Margaret Decker. Cuff her, Donovan," Lestrade commanded. "Thanks for your help, Sherlock. Now you better go home and get some rest."

"Yes, I think I will," the consulting detective agreed.

Donovan and Lestrade left with Tompkins in tow. Molly turned to look after them, standing at Sherlock's side. She felt tired, despite it only being around midafternoon. It had been a long weekend. The case solved, things could begin to go back to normal. Her mind flashed to the events earlier, in the alley. She was unsure of how to proceed with that one. She decided to let Sherlock be the one to broach the subject.

Together, they made their way back outside once again, taking a cab home to Sherlock's apartment. Sherlock called Ian and told him of everything that had happened that day. Molly couldn't really hear what the other man was saying, but she could tell from the look on Sherlock's face that it pleased him to help this man. They spent the rest of the ride home in comfortable silence.

Once back in the flat, Sherlock kicked off his shoes and disappeared into his bedroom. Molly followed him hesitantly, not sure what she should do. He was obviously spent, and she should probably head home and try to find a new air conditioner. She appeared in his doorway, at least wanting to say goodbye to him. She smiled when she found him sprawled out on his bed, face-down.

"Do you need anything?" she asked. "I could make you some food before I leave, if you'd like."

His head popped up from the pillow, and he turned over to lie on his back, "You're leaving now?"

"Well, you are obviously in need of some food and rest. And I should probably go back to my apartment and see about a new AC unit," she said, rubbing her arm self-consciously.

"You have tomorrow off, why not stay here and wait till then to see about it?"

"Well, yeah. But John will be home tonight, right? He'll be taking his bed back. I suppose I could sleep on the couch. But I don't want to put you out any more than I have. It was fine while we were working on the case, but I imagine you'll want your privacy now."

Sherlock fixed her with a long, piercing look. She resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. So this was it. They were going to have _that _discussion, now.

"Molly, I want you to stay. I need to talk to you about this afternoon."

"Sherlock, it's fine. You don't have to explain yourself. You were suffering from the effects of hyperthermia, so I can't really hold you responsible for your actions. I know you didn't mean anything by it."

"Molly," he said - his voice low and dangerous. "We just sent a woman to prison for a crime committed under the influence of hyperthermia. We still held her responsible for her actions, did we not?"

"Well…yes," she stammered. "But that was different, she killed someone."

"Yes, and I basically assaulted you. I did something to you that I shouldn't have, without your permission."

"I didn't mind. No, what I meant was – it's okay. I understand," she was definitely squirming now, as she cast a glance over her shoulder, searching for an escape.

"No. No you don't understand. Come here," he directed, putting a hand on the bed, next to him.

Obediently, Molly crossed the room and sat down next to him, on the edge of the bed. Her back was slightly turned to him, so she needn't look him in the eye the whole while. For that, she was grateful. She waited for him to say what he was going to say. Might as well let him get it out. She knew this was going to hurt, but perhaps that was for the better. It would make forgetting what happened today easier.

"You know what I am," he said, after a pause. "You know how I am. I run my life by logic and by reason. It's not that I don't _have _feelings. I just choose to ignore them, most of the time. I've been hurt, Molly. I don't like putting myself in situations where that can happen again, so I try to avoid letting emotions influence me. And yet, you seem to be able to look past all that and love me despite my imperfections."

Now he had Molly's attention. Sherlock Holmes did not have imperfections – not in his mind. That's what he told everyone, anyway. She knew better. She knew that he understood his shortcomings, and had been trying to improve himself over this past year. But he _never _actually admitted things like that. And furthermore, he was finally acknowledging her feelings for him. Out loud.

"I do," she admitted, knowing it was in vain to deny it now. "But that doesn't mean that I have ever expected you to return those feelings. Hoped – yes. Never expected."

"Of course. As I'm sure you never expected me to behave as I did this afternoon. The truth is – what I did – I've wanted to do for a while."

Molly turned to look at him, her eyes wide, "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, perhaps not exactly as it happened," he clarified, offering her a somewhat sheepish smile. "Molly. Ever since the day I fell, I've seen you differently. That day, when I held you, something changed, but I tried to ignore it. See where that got me?"

Molly thought about that day. It was the hardest day she had ever been through. She had to confront John, as he was being swallowed by his grief, and pretend as though she was dealing with Sherlock's death herself, even though he was in her flat as they spoke. She had come home sobbing, not knowing if she could continue to lie to John; now knowing how much he was hurting. That day, Sherlock had held her for the first – and last – time. He held her as she cried, and she held him as he too, dealt with the raw emotions of what he had just done. It was a terrible day for both of them. They comforted each other, and Sherlock had sought refuge in the arms of the only friend he then had. There was no kiss, nothing sexual in the encounter. Only the healing arms of a true and steady companion. The next day, Sherlock had slipped back into his manic obsession and began his new objective of destroying Moriarty's network. They never spoke of it afterward.

She realized that, though he had not mentioned it since, he had changed his attitude toward her. Now that she thought of it, that was the day he started texting her regularly when he was away from her.

"What changed?" she prompted him gently.

He looked at her, capturing her with those changeable eyes of his, "I've wanted to be closer to you, since that day. When I'm gone, I think about you. When I'm on a _case_, I think about you. I don't think about other people when I'm on cases."

"You think of John."

"John is usually right by my side; I have to acknowledge his presence. But you – you are not always involved with my cases, and yet I find my thoughts straying to you. Why? Why, Molly?"

His voice was almost pleading, as if these emotions were so foreign, he couldn't properly grasp them, and he needed her to explain it to him. His eyes searched hers as he lay there, drawing her into the depths of his sentiments. She started when she felt his hand on hers, his long fingers caressing the skin below her wrist. She turned her hand over, palm up, and he instinctively reached for her pulse. She knew he was making deductions, not that he needed to. Her feelings had been hanging between them for a long time now.

"Well," she began slowly, searching for the right words. "I find that when your mind dwells on a certain person, and your heart associates good feelings with those thoughts, it usually means that you love them; in one way or another."

"Love. Yes. That is the word. The word for what I feel," he tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Why can I not accept that word?"

"Because you have taught yourself not to," Molly said. "You said yourself that you've been hurt and you don't want to expose yourself to that risk again. To love is to expose yourself; in the worst way. No one can hurt you like the people you love – the people you've given your heart to. But if you never give your heart to anyone, you will eventually only feel bitter and alone."

"I know that…because I have felt it. I thought that I could protect myself from pain by relying only on myself, but the truth is; I need others. John has showed me that better than anyone. And then I had to push him, and every other person I cared about away," he returned his gaze to her.

"Except me."

"Except you," he agreed. "But when I was able to return, and I regained all my relationships – I still found myself wanting you. I missed walking into your house, as if it were mine. I missed eating meals with you. I missed waking up to find breakfast and coffee waiting for me. I missed the way my clothes smelled when you laundered them."

Molly smiled at him, "Sounds like you got used to living with a woman."

"Yes. God help me, I even missed your fits of rage whenever you were about to menstruate."

Molly laughed at loud, "You must really love me then!"

She had meant it in a teasing way, but his face was serious when he caught her gaze, "I think I do."

She didn't know what to say to him. This was a conversation she had never imagined would ever take place. Not with him. She could not believe that he had just said such a thing. Inside, her heart was threatening to beat out of her chest, but her mind was cautioning her. This was _Sherlock_. Could something like this even be possible? A relationship? She pushed those doubts away as quickly as they surfaced. She owed it to herself – and to him – to try. As much as she wanted this; he was the one who needed it. He only needed someone to take his hand and show him the way. If John could teach him that he needed others, she could teach him how to properly love them.

"Me too," she smiled. "But you knew that."

"Yes I do," he replied, his voice exceptionally deep.

A thought suddenly occurred to her, "So, all this time, when you've been screwing up every relationship and every date that I even thought about having…"

"They weren't good for you," he said matter-of-factly.

"And you are?" she asked, her tone more curious than doubtful.

"I am good for you, Molly Hooper," he said, sitting up so his face was near her shoulder. "First of all, you love me. You never loved any of them. Secondly, we balance each other. You can make deductions based on feelings, which I can't do. You see into the hearts of people. You have compassion, when I have none. You have patience, when I can't stop. You are steady, when I lose my focus."

"You have strength, when I am weak," she continued for him. "You have all the words, when I can't find my voice. You have confidence, when my self-esteem falters. You know what to do, when I don't have the answers."

"You catch me, when I fall," Sherlock said, his meaning both literal and figurative.

She smiled, her chin grazing her shoulder as she turned enough to really look at him. He was very close to her now. His legs were stretched out behind her back, and he was leaning his weight on his right hand. His other hand reached up and touched her neck, then her hair. She leaned into his touch, tipping her head more to the side. With a slight pull, he extracted her band and let her hair fall around her shoulders. Apparently, this was going to be a habit with him. He played with her locks for a moment, before cupping the back of her neck and pulling her closer to him.

There was a moment, right before his lips found hers, that he looked her in the eyes, as if asking permission to continue. She closed hers in reply. It was nothing like this afternoon. His lips were soft and full, tasting her slowly with timid nibbles. She responded in kind, leaning in close and reaching across his lap to hold herself up. He deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth eagerly; and yet somehow, politely. His hands were tender now, as he pulled her back down onto the bed with him. He stretched out, with his left knee up, holding her partially on top of him. She rested her head on his shoulder as he shifted to kiss her neck softly. He then spent a considerable amount of time doing strange and wonderful things to her ear, as she snuggled contently next to him.

His hands rubbed idle circles against the material on her back and shoulders. He was taking his time, but he was also growing steadily slower with his movements. His lips went to her forehead, gently kissing and nuzzling her hairline and temples. Finally, he stopped altogether. Molly's face was nestled against his throat, and she smiled at the moment she realized what had happened. Placing a kiss on his collarbone, she closed her eyes and fell asleep with him. There was no place in the world as safe, and interesting, and wonderful, as in the arms of Sherlock Holmes. They slept all through the night, not once waking till morning.

**K.K.: Well, there ya have it, folks. I tried to wrap it up quickly and concisely. The second confession (Sherlock's) was difficult to write, but I did my best to communicate his feelings about the matter. There's a fine line between deep and cheesy, and I'm afraid I was flirting with it. Please let me know what you thought - both about their relationship and the case. I am going to write a short bonus chapter as well, involving John's surprising discovery when he comes home, so it's not quite finished. Again, thanks to everyone who encouraged me and praised me as I was writing this. I deeply appreciate everyone's input. Love to all! ^_^**


	7. A Perfect Beginning

Molly awoke the following morning, in roughly the same position she had fallen asleep in. She still had her cheek nestled against Sherlock's shoulder, with his arm beneath her neck. She was lying next to him, with one leg thrown over his; and her arm across his stomach. He was on his back instead of his side, sprawled rather widely across the bed. No doubt, he had gotten too hot during the night, with his body pressed against hers, as it had been. He was still asleep, breathing softly and steadily. She took a moment to enjoy gazing on his face. He looked so different when he slept. His face dropped all the worries and cares that it normally held during his waking moments. His color had returned completely during the night, and the circles beneath his eyes had faded. His mouth looked fuller now, since he had been pumped full of fluids yesterday. She focused on his lips, remembering the way they had felt on hers last night. His kiss had been so tender and explorative – much the way she imagined it would have been.

"It's rude to stare, you know," those beautiful lips suddenly spoke, startling her.

She took a moment to regain her composure, "Luckily, neither of us is encumbered by the desire to avoid rudeness."

He smiled, cracking an eye open to look at her appreciatively, "No, I suppose we are not."

"Good morning," she greeted him warmly, rubbing her cheek on his shoulder.

"It certainly is," he replied, rolling back on his side and wrapping his other arm around her.

Molly had thought it might be awkward, waking up together for the first time. Of course, nothing had happened last night to add to that sentiment, it had all ended quite innocently with the pair of them falling asleep, fully clothed. Somehow, the moment felt natural and right – as though it was the thousandth morning they awoke in bed together, instead of the first. Sherlock looked – satisfied. Not a smug, self-satisfied, sort of look; but rather, he seemed content, happy even. A small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it was his eyes that gave him away. When she looked into those eyes, past the mismatched swirls of blue and green and gold, she saw a light in them that had not been there before. It all seemed terribly cliché, but it was there, none-the-less. Was this what Sherlock Holmes looked like when he was in love?

She found herself rather breathless in that moment. She was enjoying herself, and strongly fighting the urge to kiss him. She licked her lips in anticipation; then dismissed the idea when she tasted herself. She had not brushed her teeth before falling asleep with him almost twelve hours ago. Her breath was rancid, and she imagined his wasn't much better. What she wouldn't give for a Mentos right then. Luckily, she was saved by the extremely loud and urgent protest of Sherlock's empty stomach.

She pulled back away from him slightly, looking down at his belly, "I think we better feed you before we consider any other activities this morning."

"And what other activities did you have in mind?" he asked, his voice huskier than normal.

She blushed as she disentangled her legs from his, "I wasn't thinking of anything in particular."

His sly smirk implied his disbelief, as he watched her get up and straighten her crumpled clothes.

"You just stay there; I'll be back in two shakes."

He rolled lazily onto his back, "One, two."

"Would you like anything special?" she asked, ignoring his counting.

"Food."

"Right. Okay, I'll see what we've got."

"Quickly."

She hurried out of the room and into the kitchen, taking a moment to set out Toby's dietary requirements. She poked through the cupboards, dismayed at the complete lack of proper breakfast food. Actually, it was more of a complete lack of any kind of food. She didn't know why she was surprised; it had been like this for the last three days. Mrs. Hudson clearly hadn't gone grocery shopping for them, and she suspected it was normally John who did this task anyway. Remembering that Sherlock hadn't eaten anything to speak of in days, she decided to forgo a proper meal and just grab whatever was fastest. She decided on two packages of ramen noodles, and quickly threw them in a glass bowl, added water, and put them in the microwave. It was a ridiculous meal to have on such a day, for it was still quite hot, and the noodles weren't all that nutritious. Still, perhaps something lighter would do well on a starved stomach. She found an unopened sleeve of crackers, and added to it a jar of strawberry jam from the fridge. She placed these on a biscuit sheet that had been serving as a chemistry utensil tray – after washing it, of course. The microwave chimed that it was finished, and she poured the soup into two smaller bowls.

Tray in hand, she went back into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her. Sherlock stood in the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. His hair was wet, and he had changed into his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt.

"Did you just shower?" she asked incredulously; she had not even heard the water turn on.

"Yes."

"That was fast," she commented, setting the tray down on his nightstand.

"I needed it; I rather stank," he replied, finishing his dental hygiene and returning to the bed.

"Hmm, I probably ought to freshen up myself," she considered.

"Be quick about it then, wouldn't want your soup to get cold," he said, somehow making the comment sound suggestive.

Ignoring his tone, she searched for the t-shirt and shorts she had been sleeping in that weekend, and found them folded atop his dresser. Odd, she hadn't remembered putting those there. She popped into the bathroom, taking care to strip in the shower, lest he be watching through the frosted glass door. She washed quickly, dried and dressed behind the curtain, and brushed her teeth. She emerged with towel dried hair and took her spot next to him. He handed her the second bowl of soup, which now had crumbled crackers floating on the top. His was already quite finished. She took the bowl and settled down with her back against the headboard, her knees drawn up to balance the soup on.

"I'm sorry I couldn't find anything more suitable than this," she apologized. "Do you want anything else?"

"No, this is fine for now. John does the groceries, so I'm afraid the pantry suffers when he's away."

"I thought as much. Speaking of John – shouldn't he be here right now?" she asked, the thought suddenly occurring to her that he could be sleeping upstairs at this moment.

"He spent the night at Mary's last night. Apparently, four days away from her and he's quite beside himself."

"He's serious about her, then?"

"When is he not serious about them?"

"When they make him choose between you and them," Molly pointed out.

"Mary does seem to…appreciate John's relationship with me," Sherlock conceded.

"Good; because it's going to take a woman who can get along with you, to be John's steady. You could, of course, help him out with that by being a little less…"

"Me?"

"Forthcoming with your opinions."

"I suppose," he sighed. "I'm a creature of habit, Molly. I don't particularly like change."

"Sherlock, John can't be your flat mate forever. You are grown men now, and eventually the two of you will have to settle down."

He raised an eyebrow at her, "Is that what we are doing here? Are you domesticating me?"

Molly grabbed a cracker and munched it thoughtfully, "No one will ever truly tame you, and I, for one, would never want to. However, you yourself said that you missed living with me. And that was as domestic an environment as you've been in; in quite some time, I imagine. There is a degree of normalcy that even you crave, though you will always want the freedom to dive back into the thrill of the case."

"Nice play on words there."

"Thank you."

"What makes you think I'd be satisfied to remain in a home setting?"

"Because you've already created one for yourself here – with John. But John is a man in want of a wife, and eventually a family. You cannot provide him with that. That doesn't mean that he cares about you any less, or that he doesn't want to work with you. You're his friend and he loves you."

"He's moving ahead with his life," Sherlock admitted. "I'm glad that he found her when I was gone. Somehow, I think that's why they are doing so well. They forged a stronger bond because I was not there at the beginning to spoil it."

Molly took a deep breath, and set down her empty bowl of soup, "So, I suppose the next question is – what about us?"

"What _about _us? Are you wishing to define our relationship? I think I've made it clear – for me – how I feel."

She laughed, "Yes, I know how you feel. And you've known how I've felt for a long time. What I want to know is how we are going to approach this with our friends."

"Well Lestrade has already guessed, no thanks to that sponge bath comment you made yesterday."

"Yes, but he already suspected _long _before that. What do we tell John?"

"I don't think this is something that we can keep from him."

"Good; because frankly, I never want to have to lie to that man again."

"He forgave you for all that," Sherlock said, scooting down a bit to lounge in the pillows piled next to her.

"I know, but still. If you and I are to be…you know…I want to be up front with him."

The sound of the door to the flat opening, caused both of them to grow quiet. Shuffled footsteps, and a case being set on the floor, confirmed the identity of their visitor.

"Hmm. Sounds as if our opportunity to be forthcoming just walked in," Sherlock whispered, making himself even more comfortable on the bed.

Molly was suddenly not at all prepared for this conversation, and glanced around furtively, to make sure she looked presentable and not like she had just spent a night of passion with Sherlock – which she had not.

There were some noises in the kitchen, which sounded as though John was making himself a cuppa. These were followed by a crash and the startled cry of a cat.

"What the _hell_!—"

Definitely John.

"Sherlock! What did I tell you about the live animals?!"

Footsteps were stomping in the direction of the bedroom now. Molly braced herself for utter embarrassment.

"We agreed – no more experiments with cats—"

The door flung open and a red faced John stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth was open, but no sound was coming out as he took in the scene before him. Molly gave him what she hoped was not a sheepish grin, before glancing at Sherlock – who was now wearing a decidedly self-satisfied smile.

"It's Toby," Molly offered. "He's my cat."

"Right, of course he is," John said, finally finding his voice. "Well, very good then – I'll uh – I'll just leave you to it."

"Oh don't be a bore – obviously nothing happened," Sherlock piped up.

"What? Uh – _is_ that obvious? Not that I care, mind you – if it did. So if not…that – then what?"

"Molly was helping me with a case while you were gone – did I not text you that information?"

"You did. But you failed to mention she was staying here."

"The air conditioner broke at my flat," Molly chimed in. "Sherlock was kind enough to let me sleep here. And you know him – he didn't sleep a wink until it was solved, so I stayed in his room instead of on the couch."

"Oh, right. So I take it, it's solved – since you both seem…relaxed."

"Yes, solved it last afternoon," Sherlock confirmed.

"We were both exhausted, so I ended up staying another night. Sherlock fell asleep straight away, and this is the first meal he's eaten in a while. He had a slight case of hyperthermia, so I wanted to make sure he took care of himself this morning."

"Hyperthermia?" John asked, sounding concerned. "Because you were dehydrated?" he guessed.

"Yes, but all that's done now," Sherlock said, anxious to avoid that topic.

"I see. So you spent the night, made sure he got a good meal, obviously just freshened up – and that's it?"

He didn't sound quite convinced, though there was no note of accusation in his voice.

"Well…not quite," Molly admitted, turning to Sherlock.

"What?" the detective asked, suddenly looking quite innocent.

"You said you wanted to be honest."

"No, _you _said you never wanted to lie to him again. I said we probably couldn't hide it."

"Look, it's okay. If something happened, you are not obligated to tell me anything," John said. "It's not my business and I have no opinion either way."

"Sherlock and I are together now," Molly blurted out.

"Oh, thank God," John replied, just as quickly.

Sherlock shot him a surprised look.

"What?" Molly asked.

"Sorry. It's just that – well, with Mary and I getting on so well, I felt like I was abandoning you a lot," he said, picking his words carefully.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, not quite sure what to say to that. Molly rescued him from having to put words to his feelings.

"So, you approve?" she asked.

"Oh yes. I always thought that if was going to be anybody – that it should be you," he smiled at her sweetly.

Molly got off the bed and crossed over to him, giving him a quick hug, "Thank you John; that means a lot."

"So, does this mean we can go on a double dates now?" he asked, mischievously.

Molly glanced back at Sherlock, who seemed to have suddenly lost all his color again.

"Maybe one step at a time," she said, sharing a knowing look with John.

He laughed, "Maybe you're right. Well, I think I'm going to head back to Mary's."

"You just came from there, didn't you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, but that was when I figured you'd be either elbow deep in the case, or worse – bored because you finished it. I came back early to rescue Mrs. Hudson."

"How noble," Sherlock quipped.

"Well, since I see you're far from bored, I think I'll go make a day of it with Mary. Do you mind?"

"Not in the least," Sherlock said, casting a sidelong glance at Molly. "In fact, why don't you make a night of it as well?"

Molly blushed under his stare – he looked for the life of him like a starving, feral wolf. The intent wasn't lost on John, who looked embarrassed and pleased at the same time.

"I don't mind if I do. Alright, well, carry on. Good to see you, Molly."

"You too, John. Are you sure you don't want any breakfast?"

"I'm fairly certain, he's had it already," Sherlock interjected. "I dare say he's going back for seconds."

John colored, and tried to turn the topic, "You know me, I'm like a hobbit - second breakfast, tea, elevensies – all important meals of the day."

"Good grief John, you'll become impotent at that rate," Sherlock.

"Okay, I'm leaving," John said, abruptly turning on his heal and fleeing for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, John," Molly called after him, before turning to Sherlock, "Well, that was mean. You didn't have to embarrass him like that."

"Why, it was the fastest way to get him to leave," he countered.

"I thought you didn't want things to change."

"As John pointed out, I'm not _bored _now, am I?"

"No, I imagine you're not. Still, you didn't have to run him off like that," she said, sitting on the bed next to him and placing the empty food tray on the stand.

"Oh but I did. You see, watching you hug him got me a little…stirred up."

"What?" she asked; completely confused. "Surely, you're not jealous of that."

"No, not at all. Well, not jealous of your affection for him – I'm glad of that. But I decided that _I _would much rather be the man you wrap your arms around, and I was impatient to get back to that."

"Oh, I see," she replied, scooting down next to him and brazenly tracing circles on his chest with her index finger. "So, am to understand, Mr. Holmes, that you are feeling an attraction to me right now?"

"If by that you mean - am I as libidinous as a dandy? - then yes."

"I think that's supposed to be 'horny as a dandy', but I take your meaning," she giggled.

"Good, now shut up and kiss me."

"How about I not shut up and you kiss me silly– I seem to recall that being very effective yesterday."

"Oh, so you did enjoy that?"

"You know very well that I did."

"And what part of it did you enjoy the most, pray tell?"

"Well, I did rather like that bit with your hand in my hair, pulling my head back – but I suppose you need not make me look up at you to have better access to my lips, when we're lying next to each other like this."

"No, but I could pull your head back to have better access to other things," he offered, grabbing a fistful of her damp hair and drawing her head back by it.

He gave her exposed throat a rather harsh bite, and was delightfully rewarded with a little gasp.

Molly had thought that Sherlock would be a meticulous lover, as his kiss last night had been. In many ways, he was – for he did not skip over anything in his wake – but the passion that he poured into it was surprising to her. She supposed that it should not have shocked her, as Sherlock was nothing if not passionate. His obsessive, manic personality, carried over into his love life, it seemed. She was not displeased. He had a way of drawing her into his world, daring her to be brave and adventurous with him. He stirred something up inside of her - something new and untamed.

Sherlock had never been wont to handle her gently, and he certainly did not start that morning. Even so, he had a way of making her feel as though she was the only woman in the world. He explored this new aspect of their relationship with a childlike curiosity, but once he found something she enjoyed, took great pains to get it exactly right. He was awkward at first, but a quick study. He put his powers of observation to good use, working off of her reactions almost before she had made them.

Every careless word he had ever spoken to her; every moment of embarrassment he had deliberately caused her; was forgotten. Any doubts Molly had ever had about the sincerity or depth of his feelings, dissolved. He caressed away any feelings of insecurity, with a steady, determined hand. She had often wondered if perhaps the reason that he never pursued a relationship was because he had never found anyone worthy of it. But, if Sherlock was king in his own right, he was intent on making her his queen.

Sherlock had once told her that she could see him. She realized that all she had perceived about his heart, before, was merely the first layer she had managed to pull back. She had caught glimpses of the man he was underneath. That confident – often arrogant – shell he built around himself – all that was merely armor. The real Sherlock was uncertain, but determined to learn. He was tender, and yet fiercely possessive. He was passionate, but careful and deliberate in all he did.

* * *

Later that day, Molly caught him looking at her strangely.

"What?" she asked, returning his intense stare.

He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips, "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She leaned her forehead against his, "For what?"

"For not giving up on me. For believing in me. For loving me."

She smiled and kissed his nose, "I do. I love you so much."

He tilted his head to the side, his mouth grazing her ear. In a deep voice, as smooth as honey, he whispered back, "I love you too."

That was the first time he had ever really said it. He had almost, but not quite, said it last night. But now he had, for real. Molly's heart skipped a beat as she leaned against him. She felt as though she would burst with happiness. This was the first time he'd said it, but it would not be the last. She was the girl who got to hear those words from him. She was the woman that Sherlock Holmes called his. Her patience and steadfast friendship had finally awarded her with her heart's desire. What a strange and beautiful thing it was – this love shared between a man and woman.

**K.K.: Okay, my intention had been to make this a short, funny chapter. It ended up being really fluffy in the end, but what the heck? Hope you all enjoyed it. I realize that Sherlock has a very hard time expressing his feelings, but in light of the fact that this is taking place many months after the events of the Reichenbach Fall, I thought I could have some leeway with that. He has grown a lot since then. And though he still has issues with his emotions, he is making a conscious effort to overcome them. And when Sherlock is determined to do something the right way - he will eventually succeed. Consider the end of this chapter to be the fruit of his success. **

**Once again, thank you all for your wonderful reviews and for the support you've given me while I've written this. I appreciate it so much! Love to all!**


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